THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


From  the  collection  of 
Julius  Doerrier,  Chicago 
Purchased,  1918. 

813 

Ecl9)j 

BOOKStkcKS 


JET: 


HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE. 


By  MRS.  ANNIE  EDWARDS, 

Au  jior  of  “ Vivian  the  Beauty  f "Archie  Lovell f Etc- 


NEW  YORK! 

THE  F.  M.  LUPTON  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 
No.  65  Duane  Street. 


^ i{2c/  iT  3 ,.4V/fi  e /js>i a/ 


f )5 


OOl^TEl^TS. 


CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  Vanquished  and  Victor  . • » .6 

II.  Only  a Land-Surveyor  . • . 14 

III.  “I  PITY  THE  Peeress”  • • * .24 

IV.  A Lily — painted  . , . ,37 

V.  Beautiful  by  Proxy  , . • ,62 

VI.  His  Reverence  and  Miladi  . , , 61 

VII.  Moonlight,  or  Asphyxiation  , , ,70 

VIII.  Organ-Music  and  Champagne  , , 83 

IX.  “ Off  wi’  an  Auld  Love  ”,  . .96 

X.  Moral  Delirium  Tremens  . . . 105 

XL  An  Esthetic  Conscience  , , .118 

XIL  Baccarat  . . . , « 125 

XIII.  Sunshine,  Fire,  and  Dew  , , .136 

XIV.  Fifine  146 

XV.  A Woman-Hater’s  Woes  . . . .151 

XVI.  Antony  and  Cleopatra  . , . 162 

XVII.  In  Miladi’s  Chamber  . , , .173 

XVIII.  Just  a Touch  of  Rouge  , , , 186 

XIX.  A Genuine  Pompadour  , . , ,192 

XX.  November  Violets  . , • , 203 

XXL  The  Last  Five  Minutes  ....  208 
XXII.  Jet  is  silent  . , , . ,221 


69247G 


JET: 

HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


CHAPTER  L 

VANQUISHED  AND  VICTOE. 

Beside  the  window  of  the  best  inn’s  best  room 
a man  and  a girl  are  looking  out  upon  the  lamp- 
lit  perspectives  of  Folkestone  town  and  harbor. 

The  man  is  ill  at  ease,  despondent,  taciturn — 
in  love  ; the  girl  self -poised,  joyful,  loquacious — 
out  of  love. 

Vanquished  and  victor.  It  needs  no  second 
glance  to  discern  the  relative  positions  in  which 
Mr.  Mark  Austen  and  Miss  Jet  Conyngham  stand 
toward  each  other. 

Eight  o’clock,”  exclaims  Jet,  as  a timepiece 
on  the  mantel-shelf  strikes  the  hour;  ^^and  at 
half -past  eleven  we  go  on  board.  By  this  time 
to-morrow  morning  papa  and  I will  be  in  Paris. 
Paris  ! ” she  repeats,  her  face,  her  buoyant  figure, 
dancing  a sort  of  accompaniment  to  that  magic 
wordt  ‘‘Will  you  not  envy  us,  Mr.  Austen,  as 


6 


JET;  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


you  travel  back  alone  to  the  damp  delights  of 
Devonshire  ? I have  forty  sovereigns  in  my  purse 
to  spend  as  I choose  ; Cora  gave  them  to  me — 
good,  generous  little  Cora — as  a parting  gift. 
Fancy — forty  sovereigns,  a fortune^  to  do  as  one 
likes  with  in  Paris ! I am  not  sure  whether  I 
shall  spend  it  all  the  first  day  or  not.  I am  afraid, 
if  I once  get  into  a milliner’s  shop,  there  will  be 
nothing  left  for  jewelry,  and  I do  so  love  rings,  do 
not  you  ? ” 

Surely,  here  is  an  occasion  for  an  aspirant  lover 
to  say  something  leading,  significant,  and  yet  not 
too  absurd,  if  he  only  possess  the  gift  of  flowery 
speech  ! Mark  Austen  plucks  up  heart  of  grace, 
and  makes  the  attempt : 

pretty  hand,  to  my  thinking,  wants  no 
adornment.  Miss  Conyngham,  unless  indeed  it 
be—” 

‘‘  I beg  your  pardon  ? ” 

A single  very  plain  ring  upon  the  left  third 
finger.” 

Do  you  mean  a wedding-ring  ? ” 

“I  do.” 

What  a solemn  voice,  ‘I  do  ! ’ Any  one 
would  think  you  were  pronouncing  the  clinching 
words  of  the  fatal  ceremony  itself.” 

I wish  I were,”  says  Mark,  looking  with  sud-  . 
den  and  passionate  meaning  into  the  young  girl’s 
eyes. 

No  answering  expression  meets  him,  no  faint- 


VANQUISHED  AND  VICTOR. 


7 


est  dawning  of  a blush  crosses  her  bright,  frank 
face. 

Poor  creature,  how  I pity  you  ! But  Cora 
and  I have  often  said — ” 

Do  not  hesitate,  out  of  false  consideration 
for  my  feelings.  You  and  your  sister  have  said — ” 
Jet  shakes  her  head,  and  looks  pitying. 

^^It  is  your  misfortune,  of  course,  not  your 
fault,  Mr.  Austen.  The  disorder  takes  you  sud- 
denly, so  Cora  says — and,  as  the  child  is  engaged, 
one  must  accept  her  as  a kind  of  authority — takes 
you  suddenly,  like  measles  or  influenza,  and — ” 
Influenza  ? ” repeats  a voice  from  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  fire — a plaintive,  muffled  voice, 
suggestive  of  the  chronic  invalid.  ^^If  Mr.  Aus- 
ten has  any  fears  of  the  malady,  my  dear,  I be- 
lieve I have  a prescription  in  my  dressing-case — I 
got  it  from  Bottura  in  Rome — that  might  be  of 
service  to  him.” 

Oh,  but  Mr.  Austen’s  complaint  is  not  influ- 
enza, papa!”  cries  Jet,  maliciously.  ^^It  resem- 
bles that  disease  chiefly,  I believe,  in  the  sudden- 
ness of  the  attacks  ; but  it  is  nothing  serious.” 

“Everything  is  serious,  child.  You  should  not 
speak  with  such  levity  about  illness.  Every  kind 
of  sudden  seizure  connected  with  the  breathing 
apparatus  must  be  serious,  above  all  to  a person 
of  Mr.  Austen’s  florid  temperament.” 

And,  rising  from  the  easy-chair  in  which,  muf- 
fled about  with  furs  and  comforters,  he  has  been 


8 


JET;  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


reposing,  Jet’s  father  approaches  the  fire  and 
stretches  forth  first  one  white  hand  then  the  other 
to  its  blazing  warmth. 

Jet’s  father  ! It  requires  no  formal  introduc- 
tion to  acquaint  you  of  the  relationship  between 
the  two.  The  likeness  is  living,  although  the 
girl’s  animated  features  bloom  with  the  perfect 
health  of  nineteen,  and  Mr.  Conyngham’s  wear 
the  waxen  hue  that  thirty  years  of  chronic  valetu- 
dinarianism have  engendered. 

Valetudinarianism,  not  actual  ill-health.  Dur- 
ing these  thirty  years  that  have  brought  him  from 
delicate  youth  to  the  confines  of  fragile  old  age, 
Frederick  Conyngham  has  probably  not  once  been 
gravely  ill.  At  five-and-twenty  the  doctors,  wrong- 
ly or  rightly,  affirmed  one  of  his  lungs  to  be  touched. 
From  that  day  until  the  present  he  has  honestly 
believed  himself  to  be  dying,  and  has  framed  his 
manner  of  existence,  his  views  of  human  responsi- 
bility, in  accordance  with  his  belief. 

Happily,  his  means  have  been  sufficient  for  him 
to  try  (and  abjure)  every  climate  on  the  face  of 
the  habitable  globe  ; happily,  too,  he  has  taken 
kindly  to  the  inevitable-~has  found,  in  symptoms, 
temperature,  diet,  and  doctors,  the  congenial  ex- 
citement, the  labor  physicking  pain  yielded  to 
robuster  natures  by  the  field,  the  forum,  or  the 
stock-exchange. 

He  has  seen  his  valid  fellow-creatures  fall 
around  him  like  leaves  in  November^  two  youth- 


VANQUISHED  AND  VICTOR. 


9 


ful  wives  of  his  own  among  the  number;  has  made 
more  wills,  codicils,  and  pathetic  “ last  memoran- 
da,” than  he  can  recall ; has  watched  whole  sys- 
tems of  medicine,  or  of  quackery,  rise,  flourish, 
fall ; and  still  he  lives  and  is  no  worse  ! Nay,  to 
such  perfection  has  Frederick  Conyngham  brought 
this  difficult  art  of  living  that  his  death,  with  in- 
creasing years,  seems,  even  to  the  doctors  them- 
selves, an  ever-remoter  contingency. 

Upon  the  1st  of  each  October  he  prepares  to 
quit  whatever  English  hotel  he  may  chance  at  the 
moment  to  inhabit.  For  in  summer,  as  in  winter, 
Mr.  Conyngham  possesses  no  fixed  home.  (A  man 
hovering  between  two  Avorlds,  he  will  tell  you, 
should  have  as  few  earthly  possessions  to  set  in 
order  as  possible.)  About  the  8th  he  crosses  the 
Channel,  spends  three  weeks,  never  a day  more  or 
less,  in  Paris,  and  by  November  is  in  the  south. 

On  this  October  evening  when  my  story  opens 
his  younger  daughter  Jet  is,  by  accident  extraor- 
dinary, his  traveling-companion. 

Sickness  is  a selfish  rascal,  we  know,”  Mr. 
Conyngham  is  wont  to  explain.  Still,  I have 
not  become  so  typical  an  invalid,  I have  not  let 
suffering  so  blunt  my  sense  of  duty,  as  to  con- 
demn my  young  and  blooming  girls  to  live  the 
lives  of  nurses.”  This,  perhaps,  when  Cora  and 
Jet  would  be  sighing  through  the  winter  dreari- 
ness of  an  English  country  village,  groaning  under 
the  discipline  of  the  maiden  aunt  who  has  them 


10  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

in  charge  ; and  looking  forward,  as  to  glimpses 
of  a better  world,  to  their  father’s  rare  letter  from 
Italy  or  the  south  of  France.  ‘^My  poor  Paolo  is 
faithful  as  these  Italian  fellows  go,  and  one  meets 
with  tolerable  sympathy  among  sufferers  of  one’s 
own  nation  abroad.  Let  the  young  enjoy  the  sea- 
son of  hope  and  health  while  they  may.” 

During  the  present  autumn,  however,  Mr.  Con- 
yngham  has  sustained  a loss,  possibly  the  most 
irreparable  one  that  has  ever  come  within  the  lim- 
its of  his  experience.  Paolo,  after  five-and-twen- 
ty  years  of  valetship,  has  been  fallen  in  love  with 
and  married  by  the  widow  of  a Scarborough  hotel- 
keeper  ! — fallen  in  love  with  just  at  a season  of 
the  year  when  such  a catastrophe  must  needs  be 
most  disastrous — winter  plans  scarcely  matured, 
not  a preparation  for  the  long  journey  south  com- 
pleted. Who  should  replace  him  ? 

At  no  valet  hired  through  a London  agency 
would  Frederick  Conyngham  look.  These  Ital- 
ian fellows  must  be  taken  young,  he  theorizes — 
must  come  of  a stock  one  knows,  if  they  are  to 
be  worth  their  salt.  Fate,  however,  has  willed 
that  Paolo  should  have  a nephew  at  Turin,  a 
young  Perugino,  eager  to  enter  the  service  of  the 
English  milor  upon  the  same  conditions  that  have 
brought  his  uncle  to  affluence.  If  it  were  possible 
to  exist,  with  only  a daughter  to  wait  on  one,  un- 
til such  time  as  Paolo’s  nephew  could  be  tele- 
graphed for ! 


VANQUISHED  AND  VICTOR. 


11 


After  long  and  painful  deliberation  the  invalid 
has  decided  to  leave  England  with  Jet  for  his  sole 
traveling-companion.  His  elder  daughter,  who 
remains  on  a visit  in  Devonshire,  is  to  follow  a 
month  later  with  her  maid.  Paolo’s  nephew  will 
meet  the  travelers  a few  days  hence  in  Paris.  In 
the  mean  time — 

It  is  a most  nervous  position,”  proceeds  Mr. 
Conyngham,  with  increased  depression  of  voice, 
^^a  really  harassing  responsibility,  I can  assure 
you,  Mr.  Austen,  to  find  myself  traveling  alone 
with  a child  so  unaccustomed  to  sickness  as  Jet.” 

Child  ! ” repeats  Miss  Conyngham,  stretch- 
ing up  her  slight  figure  to  its  full  height.  Wait 
until  you  see  me  tried,  papa.  Even  Aunt  Gwen- 
doline, who  is  not  given  to  overpraising,  says  I 
have  a fine  nerve  in  emergencies,  and  I am  sure 
as  far  as  age  goes — oh,  yes,  Mr.  Austen,  you  may 
smile  ! I shall  be  twenty  next  September — as  far 
as  age  goes,  I ought  to  have  sense,  if  I am  ever 
to  have  any,  in  my  head.” 

I — I am  only  afraid  you  have  got  too  much 
sense,”  remarks  young  Austen,  very  low.  If  I 
could  see  a few  more  symptoms  of  ^ divine  folly,’ 
Miss  Conyngham,  I should  have  better  grounds 
for  hope-—” 

Hope  ! About  what  ? ” Jet  asks  him,  brusque- 
ly. Your  examination-papers  ? — the  chance  gov- 
ernment will  have  next  week  of  securing  a new 
controller  for  the  Indian  forests  ? I thought  you 


13  JET;  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


were  so  overwhelmingly  clever  that  there  was  no 
doubt  about  your  passing.” 

^^Examination-papers!  Well,  as  other  more 
important  things  may  depend  upon  my  getting 
through,  I suppose  I am  anxious  about  them,”  he 
begins,  this  time  with  a really  successful  infusion 
of  sentiment  into  his  tone. 

^^Now,  Brand’s  essence  of  beef -tea,”  interrupts 
Mr.  Conyngham,  in  his  gloomiest  voice,  and  lay- 
ing his  hand  as  he  speaks  upon  the  bell.  Are 
you  quite  certain  you  know  which  bag  Brand  is 
in  ? ” 

— believe — ” Jet  is  beginning,  somewhat 
hesitatingly. 

Belief  is  not  enough,  child,”  says  Mr.  Con- 
yngham, shaking  his  head.  ^‘Many  a valuable 
life  is  lost  through  this  kind  of  uncertainty.  We 
had  better  order  lights,  and  look  things  over  by 
the  list.  When  I had  my  poor  Paolo  I could  feel 
sure,  of  course,  that  all  human  means  Vv^ere  at 
hand — Brand’s  essence,  concentrated  milk,  cognac 
— every  restorative  needful  in  the  event  of  sudden 
prostration,  together.  But  now — ” 

A waiter  enters  before  long  with  lights,  and 
the  invalid  orders  tea,  giving  minutest  instruc- 
tions as  to  its  mode  of  infusion,  with  detailed 
directions  as  to  the  thickness  and  preparation  of 
dry-toast. 

You  will  stop  and  drink  a cup  of  tea  with  us, 
Mr.  Austen — that  is  to  say,  if  you  have  dined  ? I 


VANQUISFTED  AND  VIOTOH. 


13 


would  invite  no  delicate  person  to  commit  tlie  sui- 
cidal enormity — I am  sorry  to  say  my  own  chil- 
dren are  not  innocent  of  it — of  taking  tea  before 
dinner/’ 

‘‘Yes,  do  stop,  Mr.  Austen,”  pleads  Jet.  “You 
have  not  dined,  I know  ” (this  in  mocking  sotto 
voce),  “ But  never  mind.  In  your  critical  state 
of  health,  a slice  of  thin  toast  and  a cup  of  tea 
will  be  wholesomer  for  you  than  heavy  food. — 
Yes,  Mr.  Austen  will  stop,  papa ; and,  just  while 
they  are  bringing  in  the  tea-things,  I should  like 
you  to  look  over  the  traveling-list.  Although  we 
have  lost  Paolo,  I believe  you  will  find  everything 
possible  or  impossible  for  us  to  want  on  our  jour- 
ney in  its  proper  place.” 

She  dances  across  the  room — poor  Austen,  his 
heart  torn  by  a hundred  conflicting  emotions,  jeal- 
ously watching  her  smallest  movement — and  Mr. 
Conyngham  produces  his  list.  It  is  written  out  in 
finest  copperplate — written  with  the  methodical 
precision  that  characterizes  every  arrangement  of 
Frederick  Conyngham’s  orderly,  self-absorbed  life. 

“‘No.  1,  Mr.  Conyngham’s  dressing-case’” 
(the  traveling-bags  stand  ready  for  his  inspection 
on  a side-table — four  neat  leather  bags,  each  with 
its  appropriate  number  and  label)  ; “ ‘No.  2,  Miss 
Conyngham’s  dressing-case  ;’  ‘No.  3,  restoratives.’ 
Brand,  of  course,  should  be  there.” 

Jet  searches  and  finds  that  Brand  is  there. 
“ Brand,”  “ condensed  milk,”  “ cognac,”  every 


14  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


human  means,”  labeled  by  Mr.  Conyngham’s 
own  hand,  and  in  its  fitting  compartment. 

This,”  goes  on  the  invalid,  brings  us  to  ‘ No. 
4,  Spirit  Etna,  medicine-glass,  et  cetera!^  I trust, 
my  dear,  the  blue  spectacles  are  in  this  bag  ? ” 
^^Here  they  are,  papa — two  pairs,  with  wire 
sides.  Surely  you  do  not  mean  to  wear  two  pairs 
of  spectacles  at  once  ? ” 

I mean  one  pair  for  you.  Jet.  The  glare  and 
dust  after  Lyons — ” 

Papa,”  cries  the  girl,  “ at  this  I strike  ! I will 
drink  cognac,  if  you  like,  or  condensed  milk.  I 
will  even  swallow  Brand,”  adds  Jet,  making  a wry 
face  at  the  horrible  prospect,  but  blue  spectacles  ! 
Two  days  ago,  you  know,  you  suggested  a respira- 
tor and  a dust-cloak. — Think  w^hat  I shall  come  to 
in  time,  Mr.  Austen,”  as  that  lovelorn  youth,  his 
gaze  still  fixed  upon  her,  crosses  the  room. 
invite  you  to  pay  us  a visit  as  soon  as  we  are  set- 
tled at  Esterel.  You  will  find  me  in  a respirator, 
a pair  of  blue  spectacles  with  wire  sides,  and  a 
dust-cloak.  Can  you  withstand  the  temptation  ? ” 


CHAPTER  II. 

ONLY  A LAND-SURVEYOR. 

To  laugh  at  poor  Mark  Austen  ” has,  during 
the  last  twelve  months,  been  Jet’s  diversion,  her 
refreshment,  the  one  bit  of  genuine  comedy  enliv* 


ONLY  A LAND-SURVEYOR. 


15 


ening  Aunt  Gwendoline’s  starched  rule,  and  the 
general  sad-colored  background  of  country- village 
life. 

I ^t  no  man  cherish  sanguine  hopes  when  the 
ob  ject  of  his^choice  has  once  grown  to  look  upon 
him  in  the  light  of  the  ridiculous,  or  to  speak  of 
-him  habitually  as  ^^poor.”  A crime  or  two,  on  a 
large  and  picturesque  scale,  would  be  disqualifica- 
tion less  fatal  to  her  favor. 

Poor  Mark  Austen,  with  his  romantic  ideas, 
his  blushes,  his  big,  thick  shoes — and  only  a land- 
surveyor  ! 

That  only  a land-surveyor  ” has,  probably, 
been  the  proverbial  last  straw. 

Upon  elder  sons  Jet  Conyngham  has  been 
taught  to  look  with  the  orthodox  reverence  of 
every  well-nurtured  English  girl.  Officers  in  ei- 
ther service  she  appreciates  (having  been  to  four 
Exeter  assembly-balls)  at  their  fullest  dancing 
value.  Of  curates,  even,  at  village  bazaars,  penny- 
readings,  lawn-tennis  parties,  or  the  like,  she  is 
tolerant  ; on  one  memorable  occasion  was  more 
fiattered  than  she  cared  to  acknowledge  when  the 
youthful  assistant  of  the  parish-doctor  saved  up 
his  stipend  to  send  her  a guinea-valentine. 

But  a land-surveyor  ! 

It  is  one  of  those  dreadful  outside  businesses, 
like  a dentist’s  or  a piano-forte  tuner’s,  that  place 
a man  nowhere.  These,  reader,  are  Miss  Jet  Con- 
yngham’s  views,  not  mine.  More  brains  required 


16  JET:  HER  RACE  OR  HER  FORTUNEl> 


than  for  the  army  ? Possibly.  You  do  not  see 
brains  ; and  you  do  see  a brass  plate.  ^ 
people  of  that  kind  have  brass  pL^-c 
doors  : “ Mr.  Thomson,  Land-Sur^  ^ 

Johnson,  Auctioneer.”  Doubtful,- 
forced  to  choose,  whether  the  auctioneer’  ^ 
the  least  objectionable  of  the  two. 

What  shall  ability,  independence  haracter, 
high  principle,  avail  a man  in  the  face  of  opini^ 
like  these  ? 

Did  Jet  suspect  the  reality  of  Mark  Aub^v 
passion  for  herself,  it  might  be  different.  In  he" 
blithe  young  heart  is  room  and  to  spare  for  malice 
of  a certain  stingless,  evanescent  nature.  Of  co- 
quetry she  has  not  a grain.  Let  Mark  declare 
himself,  and  she  would  refuse  him  with  point- 
blank,  unfaltering  decision — no  doubt  about  that. 
I scarcely  think  she  would  turn  him  into  ridicule 
afterward.  As  the  next  half-hour  is  destined, 
however,  to  bring  this  matter  from  speculation  to 
certainty,  I may  return,  without  further  retrogres- 
sion, to  my  story. 

Austen  ! Let  me  attempt  to  recollect.”  It 
is  Mr.  Conyngham  who  speaks — Mr.  Conyngham 
feebly  rallying  under  the  effects  of  his  second  cup 
of  tea.  ‘^Pray,  Mr.  Austen,  do  you  spell  your 
name  with  an  e or  an  i f I rather  think  I may 
have  come  across  some  of  your  family  in  the 
south.” 

Young  Mark  replies  that  his  name  is  spelled 


ONLY  A LAND-SURVEYOR. 


17 


with  an  e.  As  regards  Mr.  Conyngham’s  having 
- 'ot , Lis  people  abroad,  nothing  is  likelier.  His 
^ji;at  Florence  five  years  ago.  His  moth- 
^ X TV','  and  from  taste,  lives  out  of  England 

^ .lush  passing  over  the  lad’s  face  as  he 

’iTit^ers  the  admission. 

Ah  ! my  memory  has  become  so  uncertain 
' that  T >ever  venture  on  a statement  without 
referring  to  my  name-book.  Here  it  is,  you  see.” 

Mr.  Conyngham  draws  from  his  breast-pocket 
.xiin  duodecimo  volume,  upon  the  back  of  which 
.-the  Avord  ‘‘Surnames”  is  embossed  in  gold  let- 
ters. 

“In  my  wretched  health,  Mr.  Austen,  and 
making  scores  of  new  acquaintance — with  or  Avith- 
out  my  will — every  winter,  I am  only  enabled  to 
recollect  names  at  all  through  alphabetical  classi- 
fication. In  this  little  book  is  a list  of  the  Eng- 
lish persons  I have  met  during  the  past  ten  years, 
with  a few  Avords  or  abbreviations,  just  sufficient 
to  recall  the  circumstances  of  our  introduction, 
added  to  each.” 

Jet  laughs  aloud. 

“ It  would  not  take  a very  big  book  to  contain 
an  alphabetical  list  of  my  friends.  A,  Austen. 
B — I do  not  know  any  B.  C,  Conyngham.  How 
dreadfully  few  people  Cora  and  I seem  to  know 
in  the  world,  papa  ! ” 

“When  you  are  a few  years  older  you  will  not 
speak  of  seclusion  as  ‘ dreadful/  my  dear  Jet.” 

2 


18  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

Mr.  Conyngliam  has  never,  voluntarily,  endured  a 
week  of  his  own  society  since  he  can  remember. 

The  number  of  new  faces  I have  been  forced 
perpetually  to  connect  with  new  names  has  for 
years  been  a standing  nightmare  to  me,  for  my 
poor  Paolo  never  mastered  sufficient  English  to 
be  of  the  slightest  assistance  in  such  matters. 
Austen  with  an  6 I think  you  said  ? ” running  his 
fragile  finger  down  the  columns  of  small,  clear 
writing  in  the  first  page  of  the  name-book.  Ah, 
here  we  have  it  ! ^ Sir  George  and  Lady  Austen. 

Naples,  1865.’  Could  those  have  been — ? ” 

Those  were  my  father  and  mother,”  says 
Mark,  shortly.  recollect  they  were  living  at 
Naples  when  I was  a small  boy  at  Rugby.  I 
went  down  there  once  for  my  holidays,” 

This  with  an  italicizing  of  the  word  once^ 
which  Jet  some  day  may  look  back  upon  and  un- 
derstand. 

‘ Sir  George  in  ill-health,’  ” Mr.  Conyngham 
goes  on  to  read,  ‘ staying  at  the  Hotel  Farnese. 
A Mr.  Biron  of  the  party.’  ” 

A Mr.  Biron  of  the  party  ! ” repeats  Mark 
Austen,  mechanically. 

Then  we  have  our  next  meeting.  I leave  a 
space — thus,  you  see — in  the  event  of  coming 
across  the  same  people  again,  ‘ Sir  George  and 
Lady  Austen,  Hotel  des  Trois  Reines,  Upper  En- 
gadine.  Sir  George  greatly  broken.  The  Rev- 
erend Mr.  Biron  with  them.’  Can  that  be  an  error 


ONLY  A LAND-SURVEYOR. 


19 


of  the  pen,  do  you  suppose — the  Reverend  Lau- 
rence Biron  ? ” 

‘‘No  error  at  all,”  answers  Mark  Austen,  al- 
most with  a groan  of  impatience.  “You  have 
every  detail  most  correctly,  sir.” 

“ Oh,  as  to  details,  I cannot  pretend  to  enter 
upon  them,”  says  Mr.  Conyngham,  deprecatingly. 
“ I add  a word  or  two,  beneath  the  name  and  date, 
and  trust  to  such  wretched  memory  as  I possess 
for  the  rest.  There  is  yet  another  entry,  I per- 
ceive— quite  a recent  one  : ‘ Hotel  Cavour,  Flor- 
ence. Lady  Austen  patroness  of  fancy-ball  ’ (this, 
of  course,  is  since  your  father’s  death)  ; ‘kept 
awake  till  three  in  the  morning  by  the  fiddlers.’ 
Your  mother,  I imagine,  must  have  been  staying 
in  the  same  hotel  with  myself.  ‘Mem.  The 
Reverend  Laurence  Biron.’  ” 

“ The  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  appears  to  be 
the  burden  of  the  song,”  observes  Jet,  conscious 
by  instinct  that  she  is  saying  something  to  ruffle 
young  Mark’s  temper. — “ Pray,  Mr.  Austen,  does 
the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  go  about  as  travel- 
ing-chaplain to  your  mamma  ? ” 

Mark  Austen  turns  his  eyes  full  upon  her.  He 
has  handsome,  outspoken  eyes — indeed,  his  whole 
boyish  face  is  handsome,  although  Miss  Jet  Con- 
yngham may  not  choose  to  think  so. 

“ The  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  is  so  little  of 
a reverend  that  I have  never  remembered  to  ask 
myself  the  nature  of  his  clerical  duties.  Alto- 


20  JET:  HER  RACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


gether,”  says  Mark,  suppose  I have  been  in 
his  society  four  times  during  my  life  : twice 
when  I was  a schoolboy  ; again  ” — a curious  in- 
flection changing  his  voice  — “ at  my  father’s 
funeral  ; and — once  since  ! — It  is  probable  that 
you  know  Mr.  Biron's  history  much  better  than 
I do,  sir  ? ” he  adds,  turning  to  Mr.  Conyngham 
with  more  nervousness  of  manner  than  the  sub- 
ject would  seem  to  warrant. 

I know  no  one’s  history  well,”  says  Mr. 
Conyngham,  with  melancholy  promptness.  I 
have  neither  strength  nor  spirits  for  the  cultiva- 
tion of  such  interests.  From  the  entries  in  my 
name-book  I appear  to  have  met  this  gentleman 
frequently — each  time,  it  would  seem,  Mr.  Aus- 
ten, in  the  society  of  members  of  your  family. 
There  my  knowledge  of  him  ends.  I do  not  im- 
agine I should  know  Mr.  Laurence  Biron  by  sight 
were  I to  meet  him  in  the  street.” 

And  a really  noteworthy  side  of  Frederick 
Conyngham’s  character  is  laid  bare  in  the  admis- 
sion. Living,  wunter  after  winter,  in  the  most  con- 
densed atmosphere  of  gossip — -I  refrain  from 
using  a stronger  word — passing  long  months  with 
the  same  set  of  people  in  one  or  other  of  the  large 
invalid  hotels  along  the  Kiviera,  seeing  every 
kind  of  social  drama,  every  variety  of  love,  ha- 
tred, friendship,  non-charitableness,  played  out 
under  his  very  eyes — he  continues  insensible  to 
it  all.  The  names  of  his  acquaintance  he  enters 


ONLY  A LAND-SURYEYOR. 


21 


in  his  book.  Their  physical  ailments,  real  or 
fancied,  may,  from  his  general  sympathy  with 
medical  subjects,  linger  in  his  memory.  Here 
his  interest  in  his  fellow-creatures  ends.  You 
might  sit  next  him  at  dinner  and  breakfast  through 
half  a winter,  and,  unless  you  committed  some 
action  bearing  directly  upon  his  own  personal 
comfort — such  as  wedging  an  ill-fitting  window, 
curing  an  obnoxious  draught,  or  the  like — you 
would  fail  to  impress  your  personality  upon  his 
mind. 

Mr.  Laurence  Biron  I should  certainly  not 
remember  were  I to  meet  him  in  the  street.  My 
impressions  of  Lady  Austen  are  more  vivid.  You 
do  not  resemble  your  mother,  I think,  Mr.  Aus- 
ten ? ” 

Not  the  very  least  in  the  world,  I am  told, 
sir,”  is  Mark’s  quick  answer. 

Ah  ! C’etait  M.  son  pere  qui  n’etait  pas  si 
bien,”  murmurs  Jet,  under  her  breath. 

Happily,  the  impertinence  is  lost.  Mr.  Con- 
yngham  has  risen  from  the  table,  and  is  again 
gazing,  despondently,  at  the  arrangement  of  the 
traveling-bags.  Mark  Austen  is  too  thoroughly 
engrossed  iu  his  own  not  over-cheerful  reflections 
to  catch  the  drift  of  Miss  Conyngham’s  whisper. 

— I suppose  I ought  to  be  going,”  he  re- 
marks, feeling  blankly  in  his  heart  that  with  those 
last  ten  minutes  of  twilight  beside  the  window 
went  his  last  chance  of  declaring  himself.  On  the 


22  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


transparent  pretext  of  looking  up  a school-friend 
at  Folkestone,  he  has  accompanied  Jet  and  her 
father  thus  far  upon  their  journey  (money  for 
railway-tickets,  alas  ! a consideration  to  him),  and 
has  won — just  a little  more  ridicule  than  usual  for 
his  pains  ! You  have  preparations  still  to  make, 
Miss  Conyngham,  and  will  be  glad  to  get  me  out 
of  the  way.” 

Out  of  the  way  ? ” repeats  Jet,  coolly.  On 
the  contrary,  I think  you  would  do  well  to  stop 
and  be  of  use,  if  your  friend  can  spare  you.” 

Oh,  my  friend — ” 

“Is  of  the  Mrs.  Harris  type — ^hypothetical. 
So  much  the  better.  With  all  the  will  in  the 
world,  I am  not  Paolo  ; and  we  have  eleven  large 
cases,  besides  these  few  little  parcels  and  hand- 
bags, to  look  after. — Papa,  do  you  hear?  Mr. 
Austen,  at  a sacrifice  of  most  valuable  time,  is 
kindly  going  to  see  us  on  board ; so  you  can  lie 
down  and  sleep  for  just  one  hour  and  five  minutes. 
You  need  have  no  more  trouble  about  luggage  or 
porters  than  if  Paolo  were  here,”  adds  the  girl. 
“ Mr.  Austen  and  I take  all  responsibility  in  our 
own  hands.” 

Mr.  Conyngham  shakes  his  head  pathetically. 

“ I never  sleep  when  I am  traveling,  my  dear 
— it  would  be  scarcely  an  exaggeration  to  say  that 
I never  sleep  at  any  time  ; but  I can  go  through 
the  form  of  lying  down.  It  is  a duty  to  endeavor 
to  husband  strength  while  we  can.” 


ONLY  A LAND-SURVEYOR. 


23 


And,  muffling  his  furred  cloak  around  him, 
the  invalid  lies  passively  down  on  a sofa,  closes 
his  eyes,  and  in  a few  minutes’  time,  as  far  as  a 
man’s  state  can  be  judged  of  by  others  than  him- 
self, is  in  the  land  of  dreams. 

Poor  papa  ! This  is  his  last  chance  of  rest 
until  we  reach  Paris,”  says  Jet,  in  a whisper.  If 
you  can  stand  the  frightful  slowness  of  a tete-d- 
tete^  Mr.  Austen,  I propose  that  we  take  ourselves 
and  the  lights  into  the  next  room.  The  bags  can 
be  locked  and  the  hotel-bill  paid  ia  five  minutes. 
That  will  give  papa  a good  hour’s  sleep.’" 

And  Mark  Austen  an  hour’s  undisturbed  talk 
with  the  object  of  his  adoration. 

Who  shall  say  his  gods  have  not  been  propi- 
tious to  him  at  last  ? 

They  move  across  the  room  : Jet  on  tiptoe, 
bearing  the  candles  ; young  Austen,  with  the  sen- 
sations of  a man  about  to  head  a forlorn  hope,  fol- 
lowing. They  open  a door  that  leads  into  a small 
adjoining  sitting-room,  close  it  noiselessly  behind 
them,  and  are  alone. 

^‘If  we  had  only  a pack  of  cards,”  says  Jet, 
seating  herself  beside  a table,  and  looking  bored 
by  anticipation — if  we  had  only  a pack  of  cards, 
we  might  enliven  these  terrible  sixty  minutes  with 
a game  of  ecarte.  Or  do  you  understand  fortune- 
telling ? Cora  has  a genius  for  it.  Long  before 
papa  decided  on  taking  me,  Cora  foretold  how  I 
should  ^ meet  my  fate  ’ — tall,  dark,  mysterious  (of 


24  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

course,  with  the  usual  drawback  of  the  malignant 
fair  woman),  in  the  south.  Do  you  understand 
fortune-telling,  Mr.  Austen  ? ” 


CHAPTER  III. 

«I  pjrpY  the  peeress.’’ 

He  draws  up  a chair  to  about  three  feet  dis- 
tant from  her,  and  begins — yes,  on  my  word  as  a 
faithful  narrator,  begins  — without  one  syllable 
of  introduction,  one  note  of  warning  ; just,  with 
a girl  as  keenly  alive  to  the  ridiculous  as  Jet  Con- 
yngham,  the  very  worst  policy  open  for  him  to 
adopt.  Young  Mark,  however,  is  far  too  agitated, 
far  too  deeply,  too  passionately  enamored,  to 
think  of  weighing  his  impulses  in  the  balance  of 
prudence. 

This  is  the  last  time  I shall  be  likely  to  see 
you  for  a great  many  months.  Miss  Conyngham.” 

Are  you  going  to  tell  my  fortune  ? ” she  in- 
terrupts, with  a half-suppressed  yawn.  Some 
people  read  the  book  of  fate  by  palmistry — these 
lines,  you  see,  that  intersect  each  other  like  a cap- 
ital ‘ W ’ ” — holding  out  her  delicately-cut,  slight- 
ly sunburned  hand  for  his  inspection. 

Mark  seizes  it  between  both  his  own — an  un- 
wise action  enough  ; but  the  temptation,  poor  lad ! 
is  too  strong  for  him. 


“I  PITY  THE  peeress; 


25 


I have  known  you  one  year  ! ” he  exclaims, 
not  pausing  to  decipher  the  meaning  of  her  face. 
“ By  the  time  I had  known  you  a week,  as  you 
yourself,  as  every  one  else,  must  have  seen,  it  was 
all  over  with  me.” 

Jet,  on  this  unexpected  sally,  allows  her  hand 
to  remain  tranquilly  in  his  possession.  She  looks 
at  him  straight  between  the  eyes,  an  ominous 
quiver,  the  while,  hovering  about  the  corners  of 
her  lips. 

‘ By  the  time  you  had  known  me  a week,  it 
was — all  over  with  you  ! ’ Before  we  go  any  fur- 
ther, Mr.  Austen,  before  I even  attempt  a reply, 
will  you  tell  me  if  it  is  any  kind  of  riddle  ? Cora 
and  Adolphus  are  real  masters  of  the  art,  but  I — ” 

You — are  affecting  to  jest  at  what  to  me  is  a 
matter  of  life  and  death.” 

There  is  no  mistaking  the  sound  of  his  voice, 
the  expression  of  his  eyes.  Jet  draws  away  her 
hand  a little  frightened,  but  still  intensely  curi- 
ous as  to  what  kind  of  demonstration  is  coming 
next. 

Please  don’t  be  tragic,”  she  cries,  imploring- 
ly. “ Whenever  I see  human  life  presented  under 
high-falutin  aspects,  it  makes  me  hysterical.  I 

saw  the  finest  actor  in  London,  Mr. (I  forget 

his  name),  act  Charles  I.,  and  when  the  poor  king 
took  leave  of  Henrietta  Maria,  and  all  the  people 
round  the  theatre  were  searching  for  their  hand- 
kerchiefs, I laughed.  Aunt  Gwendoline  said  my 


26 


JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


conduct  was  irreligious.  I could  not  help  it. 
These  things  are  the  result  of  temperament.  If 
you  were  to  be  pathetic  now,  I should  be  hysteri- 
cal, and,  if  I were  hysterical,  I should  wake  papa, 
so  please — don’t ! ” 

Thus  admonished,  Mr.  Mark  Austen  proceeds 
to  urge  his  suit ; but  upon  a less  exalted  plane 
than  that  of  tragedy. 

“ My  worldly  prospects,”  he  remarks,  gloom- 
ily, are,  I suppose,  about  as  uncertain  as  any  fel- 
low could  have  to  offer.” 

“You  see  you  are  in  such  a dreadful  profes- 
sion,” says  Jet,  with  quiet  pity.  “If  your  parents, 
as  you  have  told  me,  wanted  to  put  you  in  the 
army,  why  in  the  world  did  you  oppose  them  ? 
In  the  army  a man  may  be  over  head  and  ears  in 
debt,  wild,  extravagant — anything  you  choose  ; 
and  still  (as  long  as  he  manages  not  to  be  cash- 
iered) the  position  is  that  of  a gentleman.” 

“ Position  ! I should  prefer  my  own  state  of 
mind  being  that  of  a gentleman  ! ” exclaims  Mark. 
“ That,  however,  is  not  a point  we  need  discuss. 
If  I pass  this  examination.  Miss  Conyngham,  as 
I have  a fair  chance  of  doing,  I shall  no  lon- 
ger be  in  the  obnoxious  profession  of  a land-sur- 
veyor.” 

“ Not  exactly.  At  all  events,  ‘ Indian  forests,’ 
anything  in  the  service,  has  a better  sound,  has  it 
not  ? ” 

“ I should  have  to  learn  my  work  for  two  years 


I PITY  THE  PEERESS. 


27 


and  a half  under  a practical  engineer  in  France  or 
Germany.  After  that,  I — I — ” 

He  gets  so  red,  he  looks  so  miserable,  that  Jet’s 
heart  is  almost  touched. 

“ I should  be  better  able  to  support  a wife,  in 
India,  than  half  the  officers  in  the  army.” 

A wife  ? ” 

She  brings  the  word  out  with  a gasp  ; she  sits 
looking  at  his  flushed,  boyish  face,  his  rumpled 
blond  hair,  in  simple,  unaffected  amazement. 
Then  she  begins  to  laugh,  not  hysterically,”  not 
loud  enough  for  the  sound  to  reach  Mr.  Conyng- 
ham,  but  with  a quiet  heartiness,  a sense  of  real, 
concentrated  enjoyment,  that  under  circumstances 
less  poignant  would  do  you  good  to  hear. 

This  is  something  I had  never  expected.” 
So,  as  soon  as  she  can  speak  at  all,  she  tells  him. 

Cora  and  I have  often  thought — ” 

Go  on,  Miss  Conyngham,  I beg.” 

That  you  might  be  in  love — with  Wilhelmina 
Thompson,  or  the  eldest  Miss  Fairleigh,  perhaps,  as 
neither  of  them  is  in  her  first  youth.  But  to  hear 
you,  Mark  Austen,  talk  of  a wife  ! Why,  you  are 
only  a boy.  You  have  just  left  school.  I believe 
you  never  smoked  a cigar,  never  wore  a tail-coat^ 
before  you  came  to  Dulford.  Now  did  you,  on 
your  honor  ? ” 

For  a minute  Mark  Austen  does  not  speak. 

A minute — sixty  seconds  ! It  sounds  nothing 
in  writing — ’tis  a pretty  long  stretch  of  time,  as 


28  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


Jet  findSj  when  you  have  to  support  the  ordeal  of 
being  looked  at  by  a pair  of  such  passionately 
earnest  human  eyes  as  look  at  her  now. 

On  your  honor.  Miss  Conyngham,  have  you 
ever  seriously  thought,  do  you  think  at  this  in-, 
stant,  that  I could  be  in  love  with  any  woman  on 
the  face  of  the  earth  but  yourself  ? ’’ 

The  girl  colors  from  temple  to  chin  ; she  turns 
away  from  him  sharply. 

In  the  course  of  the  two  years  and  a half  dur- 
ing which  she  has  been  considered  out,”  the 
range  of  Jet  Coiiyngham’s  personal  experience 
in  matters  of  sentiment  has  been  considerable. 
There  was  the  doctor’s  assistant  (with  his  valen- 
tine) of  whom  I have  spoken.  There  have  been 
the  pretty  speeches  of  red-coated  partners  at  four 
Exeter  balls  ; the  devoted  attentions  of  young 
Lord  Starcross,  aged  eighteen,  at  every  lawn- 
tennis  party  and  archery-meeting  of  the  past 
summer  ; and  there  have  been  two  hopeless  cu- 
rates. 

To  the  passion  of  love  she  has  never  come 
nearer  than  in  the  pages  of  a three- volume  novel ; 
and  its  outward  and  visible  demonstrations,  as 
shown  on  Mark  Austen’s  miserable  face,  affect 
her  most  unpleasantly. 

I declare,  on  my  solemn  honor,  I never  sus- 
pected you  of  such  folly.  In  love — with  me  ! 
What  have  I done,  I of  all  people,  that  you  should 
dare  tell  me  such  horrible  things  ? ” 


aj  pjYY  THE  PEERESS. 


29 


A look  of  positive  repulsion  is  on  her  face. 
She  draws  herself  as  far  away  from  him  as  it  is 
possible  for  her  to  do  without  actually  quitting 
her  chair. 

Mark  Austen’s  fiery  temper  rises. 

“You  are  assuming  a tone  that  the  occasion 
does  not  warrant,”  he  exclaims,  hotly.  “ A man, 
even  a land-surveyor,  does  not  offer  an  affront  to 
a girl  when  he  tells  her  that  he  loves  her.  In  ask- 
ing you  to  be  my  wife — yes.  Miss  Conyngham,  I 
repeat  the  obnoxious  words,  my  wife — I pay  you 
as  high  a compliment  as  I could  pay  any  peeress 
in  England.” 

“ Do  you  ? I am  sorry  for  the  peeress.  I had 
always  thought,”  cries  Jet,  with  indignation,  “that 
a man  of  delicacy,  of  self-respect,  would  wait 
until  he  received  some  slight  encouragement  be- 
fore putting  people  in  such  a wounding  position  ; 
I—” 

“ Oh,  you  have  never  given  me  the  slightest 
encouragement,  I know,”  he  interrupts  her,  bit- 
terly ; “ I have  myself,  and  myself  alone,  to  thank 
for  everything.  I am  a fool  ! ” 

And  Mark  Austen  buries  his  face  between  his 
hands. 

Jet  feels  an  awful  presentiment  that  he  is 
going  to  cry. 

If  it  were  not  for  disturbing  her  father,  she 
would  take  sure  and  instant  refuge  in  flight.  But 
flight  is  barred  to  her.  The  room  has  no  egress 


30  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


save  through  the  larger  drawing-room  in  which 
Mr.  Conyngham  is  reposing.  She  has  the  awful 
prospect  of  remaining  for  one  hour  alone  with 
Mr.  Mark  Austen,  listening  to  whatever  recrimi- 
nations, worse  still,  to  whatever  sentimental  mad- 
ness, it  may  be  his  will  to  utter. 

Perhaps  this  is  the  way  girls  are  entrapped 
into  plighting  their  faith  ; this  the  sort  of  coer- 
cion that  brings  about  the  myriad  unhappy  mar- 
riages' one  sees  around  one  in  the  world  ! Jet 
Conyngham  feels  that  if  Mark  were  to  show  symp- 
toms of  tears  she  would  say  yes  ” on  the  spot  ; 
although,  how  far  she  might  hold  herself  bound 
by  the  letter  of  the  promise,  afterward,  would  be 
another  question. 

But  Mark,  at  no  time  of  a lachrymose  temper- 
ament, was  never  further  from  shedding  tears  than 
at  this  moment. 

You  say  that  you  have  never  given  me  en- 
couragement,” he  exclaims,  abruptly  looking  up 
at  her.  In  a certain  restricted  sense,  I allow  that 
you  have  not.  Women,  no  doubt,  act  according 
to  their  own  code  of  honor  in  these  matters.” 

Away  flies  every  spark  of  pity  out  of  JetV 
breast.  Her  eyes  kindle,  her  cheeks  flush. 

Well!  This,  indeed,  is  an  experience  I had 
not  looked  for.  You  begin  talking  abject  non- 
sense to  me — ” 

Nonsense ! ” 

Oh,  if  that  does  not  please  you^sir,  you  make 


I PITY  THE  PEERESS.’ 


31 


me,  Jet  Conyngham — an  offer ! ” It  seems  as 
though  the  words  would  choke  her.  ‘‘  Then,  be- 
cause I refuse  to  listen  to  you,  you  sneer  about 
‘ honor.’  I have  as  fine  a sense  of  honor  as  your 
own.  I despise  girls  who  pride  themselves  on 
their  conquests,  or  who  like  to  see  a man  make  a 
fool  of  himself.  I have  seen  the  sight  oneef  I 
see  it  at  this  moment,”  says  Jet,  cruelly,  ^^and  I 
hope  to  Heaven  never  to  look  upon  the  like  again 
during  the  remainder  of  my  life.” 

Mark  starts  up ; he  stands,  with  folded  arms, 
with  whitening  lips,  confronting  her. 

If  we  lived  under  the  same  roof  for  twenty 
years,  you  need  not  be  afraid.  I — ” 

‘‘May  I ask  of  you  to  speak  lower,  please? 
Say  whatever  it  suits  you  best  to  say  to  me,  about 
myself,  but  do  not  disturb  papa.” 

“ And  when  I look  back  to  all  that  is  past ; 
when  I think  how  I have  given  you  credit  for 
frankness,  for  kindness — ! ” 

“You  have  given  me  credit  justly,”  she  cries, 
with  a firm  lip,  and  returning  him  glance  for 
glance.  “From  the  day  you  came  to  Dulford, 
from  the  first  Sunday  I saw  you,  crushed  in,  hot 
and  miserable,  between  Wilhelmina  Thompson 
and  her  papa,  I liked  you,  though  I could  not  re- 
sist the  pleasure  of  teasing  you  sometimes.  If  I 
had  had  a brother,  I would  not  have  minded  his 
being  cut  on  your  pattern.  I thought  you  were 
unhappy,  that  something  in  your  position  or  your 


32  Her  face  or  her  fortune? 


prospects  disheartened  you,  and  I tried  my  best  to 
treat  you  kindly.” 

To  treat  me  kindly ! ” echoes  poor  young 
Mark. 

You  know  it,  as  well  as  I do.  At  lawn-ten- 
nis, to  take  only  one  instance,  have  I,  or  have  I 
not,  always  managed  to  get  you  o n my  side  ? ” 

“ Unless  little  Lord  Starcross  happened  to  fill 
the  place  of  honor  before  me  ! Possibly,  you  did 
not  think  me  a bad  player  ? ” suggests  Mark,  grimly. 

At  Easter  did  I not  use  all  my  infiuence  to 
get  you  into  the  choir,  just  because  I knew  the 
practisings  amused  you  ? ” 

‘‘You  wanted  a tenor,  Miss  Conyngham — you 
were  sincere  enough  to  tell  me  so.  The  anthem 
would  have  fallen  through  without  one.  Gibbs, 
the  carpenter,  was  ill  with  pleurisy,  so  you  selected 
Mark  Austen — taking  care  to  let  him  know  that 
his  voice  was  not  equal  to  Gibbs’s — as  a substitute.” 

“ And  then  at  the  tea-parties  ! Have  I not  al- 
ways banked  with  you  when  we  played  ‘Van 
John  ! ’ Yes,  and  in  the  face  of  the  whole  world, 
with  the  terrible  eyes  of  Aunt  Gwendoline  full 
upon  me,  have  even  proposed  that . we  should  be 
partners  when  you  were  too  shy  to  come  forward 
yourself.” 

“My  unsuccessful  rivals  being  married  men  of 
sixty,  or  small  boys  in  jackets  ! Yes,  Miss  Con- 
yngham, you  have  generally  been  good  enough  to 
bank  with  me  at  Van  John,” 


I PITY  THE  peeress; 


S3 


I have  tried,  whenever  a chance  arose,  to  he 
kind,  and  nice,  and  friendly,  to  you,”  she  cries. 

Why,  only  look  at  the  last  archery-ball,  at  the 
dances  ! ” 

But  here  some  contradictory  recollection  would 
seem  to  have  dawned  on  Jet’s  mind.  Her  eyes 
sink  ; the  words  die  stammeringly  on  her  lips. 

The  last  archery-ball ! ” repeats  Mark  Aus- 
ten, reddening.  I think  you  might  have  had  the 
good  feeling  not  to  revert  to  the  last  archery-ball. 
Pray,  Miss  Conyngham,  did  I,  on  that  occasion, 
receive  evidence  of  your  kindness,  your  friendship, 
for  me  ? ” 

danced  with  you  three — four  times  run- 
ning,” she  replies  ; but  still  in  faltering  tones,  still 
with  her  eyes  downcast. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  evening,  before  any 
one  ‘ belonging  to  the  service  ’ had  arrived  from 
Exeter,  I know  that  you  did.  If  I mistake  not, 
you  also  permitted  me  to  write  my  name  down 
on  your  card  for  the  cotillon  ? ” 

He  looks  tragic  enough  now,  in  all  conscience; 
but  Jet’s  eyes  are  busily  scrutinizing  the  faded 
hotel-carpet,  not  his  face. 

And  if,  after  eighteen  dances,  I was  unlucky 
enough  to  get  confused  over  my  card,  was  it  my 
fault?”  she  asks  him.  I am  sure  the  names 
were  so  rubbed  out,  it  is  a wonder  I did  not  make 
more  mistakes.  I — I — ” 

‘‘You  threw  me  over  calmly,  coolly,  deliber' 


34  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


ately.  Do  not  be  at  tbe  trouble  of  defending 
yourself.  The  same  elastic  code  we  were  speak- 
ing of  is,  I dare  say,  not  too  severe  on  the  score 
of  truth-telling.” 

“ Well,  and  if  I did  throw  you  over — and  1 
Tcnow  I did — the  temptation  was  great,”  cries  Jet, 
with  rising  spirit.  danced  the  cotillon  with 
the  handsomest  man,  the  best  waltzer,  in  the  room, 
the  colonel  of  the  regiment.” 

“ the  colonel  of  the  regiment  ! ” exclaims 

Mark,  goaded  to  desperation. 

Miss  Jet  Conyngham  rises.  She  makes  her  dis- 
carded lover  a courtesy,  formal  and  lengthy,  as 
ladies,  half  a century  ago,  used  to  make  their 
partners  at  the  conclusion  of  the  minuet. 

Blank  the  colonel  of  the  regiment ! ” With 
slow,  unmistakable  gusto  she  lingers  over  the 
monosyllable  Blank  ! ” I thank  you  for  your 
graceful  epithets,  Mr.  Austen,  in  the  colonel’s 
name  and  in  my  own.  After  this,  if  you  please, 
we  will  be  silent.  I am  forced,  for  my  papa’s 
sake,  to  remain  a little  longer  in  your  company. 
Your  violent  language,  sir,  your  cursing  and  your 
swearing,  no  duty  compels  me  to  endure.” 

And  having  thus  spoken,  her  slight  figure  as 
upright  as  a judge’s  wand.  Jet  walks  across  to  one 
of  the  windows  and  takes  up  her  position  there,  a 
half-smile  of  conscious  superiority,  of  elevation, 
at  all  events,  above  the  very  low  and  common 
place  sins  of  a Mr.  Mark  Austen,  round  her  lips. 


I PITY  THE  PEERESSJ 


35 


Mark  seats  himself  with  an  air  that  he  would 
fain  hope  is  one  of  indifference  at  a table,  seizes 
the  solitary  book  within  reach — a history,  sixty 
years  old,  of  the  rural  parishes  of  Sussex — opens 
it  at  hazard,  and,  with  lurid-red  lights  dancing  be- 
tween his  vision  and  the  page,  begins  to  read  a 
chapter  ^^On  the  Fisheries  of  Brighthelmstone  ” 
upside  down. 

Thus  they  remain,  never  uttering  a sound,  nev- 
er looking  in  the  direction  of  each  other’s  faces,  un^ 
til  the  different  church-clocks  of  Folkestone  ring  a 
discordant  eleven.  Then  Jet  Conyngham,  with 
airy,  self-composed  tread,  recrosses  the  room. 

Mark  Austen  rises ; he  holds  open  the  door, 
polite,  cold,  stately,  for  her  to  pass  out. 

‘‘If  it  inconveniences  you  in  the  very  least  to 
see  poor  papa  on  board  the  steamer,  pray  do  not 
come,  Mr.  Austen.  Pray  do  not  consider  that  you 
are  in  any  way  bound  by  your  promise  to  render 
us  assistance.” 

So  she  tells  him,  in  a set,  formal  little  manner, 
as  though  she  were  repeating  a lesson  learned  by 
heart. 

“ And  why  should  I not  see  Mr.  Conyngham  on 
board  the  steamer  ? ” returns  Mark,  with  studied 
coolness.  “ What  action  has  Mr.  Conyngham  com- 
mitted that  I should  treat  him  with  discourtesy  ? ” 

Not  another  syllable  passes  between  them  un- 
til just  a minute  and  a half  before  the  boat  leaves 


36  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUXE? 

Folkestone  Ilarkor.  Then,  after  seeing  her  father 
comfortably  packed  away,  liis  bags  and  restora- 
tives around  him,  in  the  cabin.  Jet  runs  up  on 
deck  to  take  a parting  look  at  Englisli  shores,  and 
finds  herself  once  more  standing  at  Mark  Austen’s 
side. 

I — I thought  you  were  gone,  ages  ago,”  she 
exclaims,  startled  out  of  all  her  resolutions  of  re- 
serve. And,  indeed,  the  last  bell  has  rung,  the 
last  Any  one  for  the  shore  ? ” been  lustily  vocif- 
erated by  the  sailor  who  guards  the  gangway. 

Surely,  Mr.  Austen,  you  do  not  mean  to  cross 
over  to  Boulogne  with  us  ? ” 

Heaven  forbid  ! ” says  Mark  Austen. 

Solemn,  tragic,  is  the  young  fellow’s  voice  ; 
but,  for  once,  tragedy  does  not  move  Jet  Conyng- 
ham  to  laughter. 

“I  stopped  here,”  he  proceeds,  ^^upon.  the 
chance  of  seeing  you  alone,  of  offering  you  an 
apology  before  you  left.” 

An  apology  ! As  if  anything  of  the  kind 
v/ere  needed  ! ” 

It  is  greatly  needed.  Miss  Conyngham.  Can 
you  bring  yourself  to  forgive  me  for  speaking  to 
you  as  I did  ? My  confounded  temper  got  the 
better  of  me,  and  I behaved  like  a churl.” 

It  was  more  my  fault  than  yours.  I — I had 
no  right  to  laugh  at  you,”  Jet  confesses,  a choking, 
most  unwonted  sensation  making  itself  felt  in  the 
regions  of  her  throat. 


A LILY— PAINTED. 


37 


was  not  your  fault  at  all,  and  you  had 
every  right  to  laugh,”  he  interrupts  her,  shortly. 

Perhaps,  at  some  future  time — if  ever  you  should 
be  hard  hit  yourself — such  things  may  happen, 
you  know — you  will  come  to  understand  that  the 
jest  was  somewhat  sorry  earnest  for  me.” 

And  then,  without  a shake  of  the  hand,  with- 
out one  more  word  of  farewell  greeting,  he  leaves 
her. 

Five  minutes  later  the  steamer  is  at  sea. 

For  the  first  time  since  she  can  remember  Jet 
hears  foreign  voices  around  her  ; she  sees  the  Folke- 
stone Harbor  lights  burn  dimly  through  the  mist. 
The  old,  dull  English  life,  Mark  Austen’s  love  in- 
cluded, is  already  a thing  of  the  past ; and,  with 
the  happy  ingratitude  of  her  age,  the  girl  turns 
her  face  round  hopefully  toward  the  unseen  coast 
of  France — toward  the  south. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A LILY PAINTED. 

Avignon  : the  sun  shining,  the  mistral  blow- 
ing. Could  any  other  combination  of  words  evoke 
the  same  images  of  dust  and  glare,  of  smooth  blue 
sky,  and  bitter,  heart-searching  cold  ? 

At  the  beginning  of  an  English  November, 
winter,  the  common  foe,  steals  on  you  with  muf- 


38  JET;  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


fled  footsteps,  envelops  you  in  slow-gathering 
mists  and  fogs,  occasionally  slays  and  buries  you, 
before  you  are  well  awake  to  his  approach  ! Here, 
in  the  south,  he  springs  at  your  throat  with  a 
bound ! 

Last  week  ’twas  glowing  summer  ; the  grapes 
not  all  gathered  from  the  yellowing  vines  ; the 
vintagers  taking  their  mid-day  siestas  overshad- 
owed by  cork  or  olive  groves  from  the  breathless 
heat.  To-day  there  blows  a northwest  wind, 
whose  progress  you  can  see^  by  the  columns  of 
dust  and  gravel  across  the  plains.  A wind  that 
sets  the  collective  doors  and  shutters  of  the  whole 
city  rattling  like  bird-clappers ; that  causes  the 
very  oxen-drivers  to  wrap  themselves,  as  they 
would  against  January  snows,  in  their  canvas 
cloaks  ; that  makes  every  invalid  in  every  hotel 
in  Avignon  realize  the  force  of  the  old  distich,  as 
they  shiver,  cough,  grumble,  in  distressful  har- 
mony : 

“ Avignon  venteuse ; 

Sans  vent,  empoisonneuse ; 

Avec  vent,  ennuyeuse. 

Frederick  Conyngham  is  too  methodically 
wretched  a man  to  grumble  overmuch.  He  se- 
cures the  most  comfortable  arm-chair  in  the  warm- 
est chimney-corner  that  the  public  salon  of  the 
Hotel  de  FUnivers  yields,  and  there,  with  Peru- 
gino  at  hand  to  minister  to  his  needs,  sits,  mak- 
ing entries  in  his  different  neat  little  note-books, 


A LILY— PAINTED. 


39 


and  drinking  barley-water  ; a slight,  exceedingly 
slight,  cold  that  Mr.  Conyngham  believes  he  may 
have  taken  during  his  journey  from  Paris  render- 
ing the  consumption  of  this  melancholy  liquid 
necessary. 

Beside  one  of  the  windows,  an  invalid  guide- 
book in  her  hand,  stands  Jet,  looking  out  with 
longing  eyes  at  the  keen  blue  of  the  sky,  the  sharp 
whiteness  of  the  sunshine,  and  envying  every  liv- 
ing creature  who  walks,  I might  more  justly  say 
who  is  vehemently  propelled,  along  the  narrow 
street  that  leads  from  the  Place  Crillon  into  the 
court-yard  of  the  hotel. 

Never  yet  has  there  blown  wind  so  cold — and 
she  has  experienced  the  zephyrs  of  nineteen  Eng- 
lish springs  — that  Jet  Conyngham  would  not 
sooner  have  braved  its  inclemency  than  stay,  in-, 
active,  within-doors  ; for  the  girl  is  hereditarily 
restless,  has  a temperament  adapted  to  any  ‘‘  do- 
ing ” life,  rather  than  to  one  of  contemplation,  or 
crewel-work.  But  Mr.  Conyngham  keeps  her  fast 
prisoner  to-day.  " W ould  she  wear  blue  spectacles, 
a respirator,  or  a furred  cloak,  there  might  be  hope 
for  her.  As  she  is  contumacious  on  these  points, 
she  must  remain  captive,  thinking  over  a statistic, 
just  gathered  from  her  guide-book,  as  to  the  number 
of  days  on  which  the  mistral  prevails  throughout 
the  winter,  and  speculating  as  to  whether  existence 
will  be  more  cheerful  looked  at  through  the  double 
windows  of  southern  hotels  than  she  and  Cora  used 


40  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


to  find  it  among  tlie  mud,  and  mildness,  and  free- 
dom, of  tlie  Devonshire  lanes. 

Only  one  other  traveler  shares  possession  of  the 
salon  with  Mr.  Conyngham  and  his  daughter — an 
Englishman  who  came  down  in  the  same  train 
with  them  from  Paris,  yesterday,  and  who,  at  the 
present  moment,  is  engaged  in  deciphering  a letter 
at  the  centre-table  of  the  room — a letter  bearing 
the  Florence  post-mark,  ill-written,  crossed  ; its 
import  certainly  not  of  love,  scarcely,  one  would 
say,  of  friendship,  if  the  bored,  impatient  expres- 
sion of  the  reader’s  face  speak  true. 

Amico  mio.” 

By  an  ironical  whim  of  Fate  it  happens  that 
these  four  scrawled  pages  sound  the  key-note  of 
Jet  Conyngham’s  story.  I must,  therefore,  im- 
pose upon  the  reader  the  same  infiiction  that  the 
lawful  Amico  mio  is  undergoing  : 

‘^You  do  not  deserve,  bad  creature,  that  I 
should  write  you  two  letters  for  one  ! However, 
I really  want  a commission  done  in  Avignon,  and 
as  I believe  you  will  make  that  city  the  pied-dj- 
terre  of  your  voyage,  I run  the  chance  of  address- 
ing a few  hurried  lines  to  the  Hotel  de  I’Univers. 

Go  to  Mademoiselle  Palmieri,  modiste  (I  for 
get  the  exact  address,  a milliner  in  a little  street 
leading  off  the  Rue  Calade — it  will  not  take  you 
an  hour  to  hunt  her  up),  and  get  me  one  of  those 
black-velvet  coiffures  worn  by  the  Arles 


A LILY— PAINTED. 


41 


peasant-girls.  Palmieri,  I fancy,  keeps  them 
made  up  ; if  not,  order  one.  You  will,  probably, 
stop  a night  or  two  in  Avignon,  or  can  do  so  for 
the  sake  of  my  head-dress.  They  are  made  of 
black  velvet  and  lace,  but  I am  not  sure  whether 
a flower  should  be  Veghrement  posee  above  the  ear 
or  not.  This  you  must  see  into.  I do  not  require 
any  of  the  large-headed  pins  worn  by  the  peasants, 
as  I have  my  own  lovely  Pink  Coral^  or  Pearly 
according  to  my  toilet. 

‘^All  the  gentlemen  were  telling  me  at  the 
carnival-ball  last  year  how  admirably  the  Arles 
head-dress  would  suit  my  line  of  feature^  so  I 
mean  to  have  one  by  me  for  any  occasion  when  I 
may  want  to  look  my  best. 

Florence  has  been  dull  to  desperation  since  I 
came  down  from  Homburg,  and  I really  look  for- 
ward, mon  cher^  to  your  return.  Until  you  come 
I am  without  a cavalier,  and,  unless  I take  horse- 
exercise,  I always  get  back  my  attacks  of  migraine. 
Talking  of  migraine^  I must  tell  you  that  I have 
gone  definitely  away  from  allopathic  treatment. 
Jinkinson,  no  doubt,  was  a worthy  man  and  an 
old  friend,  but  his  ideas  belonged  to  the  past,  and 
you  know  I am  always  for  New  Lights  in  every- 
thing. My  present  medical  attendant  is  young 
Dr.  Herzlieb,  a homoeopathist  (to  which  science  I 
am  an  ardent  convert),  and  one  of  the  most  fasci- 
nating and  intellectual  of  creatures — a mind  quite 
above  any  small  thought  of  gaining  by  his  pro- 


43  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


fession,  and  the  most  poetic  profile  ! But  you 
will  judge  of  him  for  yourself. 

“ If  you  remain  more  than  a week  at  Esterel,  I 
shall,  likelier  than  not,  run  up  and  join  you  there  ; 
so  keep  me  au  fait  of  your  movements.  Esterel 
reminds  me  I have  had  a letter  from  little  Major 
Brett,  who  is  making  it  his  headquarters.  He 
tells  me  a piece  of  news  that  will  be  interesting 
to  the  heiress-seekers  of  the  Riviera.  Mr.  Conyng- 
ham  has  taken  rooms  at  the  Hotel  Paradis  for  the 
winter  (you  must  remember  Frederick  Conyng- 
ham  ; we  met  him  first  in  Naples — alas  ! in  hap- 
pier days),  and  is  to  bring  his  daughter,  a well-gilt 
octoroon,  with  him.  The  mother  was  a West  In- 
dian heiress,  and  the  girl  will  come  into  forty 
thousand  pounds  on  the  day  she  is  twenty-three. 
There  will  be  a chance  for  some  unprincipled  for- 
tune-hunter, mon  cher — eh  ? 

Miss  Conyngham  is  not  a beauty.  Old  Brett 
remembers  seeing  her  at  the  theatre  in  London, 
and  says  that  her  hair  is  inclined  to  wooliness, 
while  her  lips  and  skin  betray  the  dark  blood 
unmistakably.  But  mere  red-and-white  beauty 
would  be  thrown  away  on  a girl  with  forty  thou- 
sand charms — in  the  three  per  cents.  ! You  re- 
member what  Lord  Byron  wrote  : 

‘ . Shakespeare  says  ’tis  silly 
To  gild  refined  gold  or  paint  the  lily ! ’ 

Depend  upon  it,  Miss  Conyngham  will  find 


A LILY— PAINTED. 


48 


suitors  and  to  spare  in  this  country  of  adventurers, 
thick  lips  and  woolly  hair  notwithstanding. 

Vallance  warns  me  that  it  is  post-time,  so  I 
must  bring  my  scribble  to  a close.  Unless  you 
return  to  Florence  quickly,  I shall  positively  be 
forced  to  ride  out  with  a groom,  which  I detest. 

Toujours  d toi^ 

^^Heleis^a  Austen. 

P.  S. — In  case  of  a flower  being  worn,  ask 
Palmieri  if  ’tis  most  elegant  above  the  right  ear 
or  left.  Pack  the  coiffure  in  your  hat-box  to  avoid 
crushing. 

A rivedcrlaP 

The  Englishman  reads  this  farrago  through 
from  the  first  word  to  the  last,  impatience  gradu- 
ally merging  into  attention  toward  its  close.  Then 
he  takes  up  a Galignani  from  the  table  close  at 
hand,  unfolds,  lifts  it,  and  peruses — the  counte- 
nance of  Mr.  Conyngham  and  of  Jet. 

Jet  during  the  past  two  minutes  has  aban- 
doned her  post  beside  the  window.  She  stands  at 
her  father’s  side,  inspecting  with  grave  interest  a 
jug  of  barley-water  freshly  brought  in  by  Peru- 
gino.  Unobserved  himself,  the  stranger  can  thus 
scan  her  face  critically,  compare  its  merits  and  its 
faults,  item  by  item,  with  the  description  that  he 
has  received  of  them. 

To  start  with,  her  complexion  is  of  brilliant 
snow  and  rose-bloom.  So  much,  he  thinks,  for 


44  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

^ the  “ dark  blood  unmistakable,”  so  much  for  wom- 
en’s forecasts  as  to  each  other’s  looks  ! Her  hair, 
of  too  warm  a bronze  to  come  under  the  denomi- 
nation light,  waves  back  from  her  broad  forehead 
in  those  large  natural  undulations  which  stand  at 
the  remote  end  of  the  pole  from  wooliness.  Her 
eyes  are  gray,  over-deeply  set,  a severe  judge 
might  say,  for  beauty  ; and  still  to  this  fault  (if 
fault  it  be)  her  face  owes  more  than  half  its  charm 
of  vividness  and  originality.  Her  mouth,  perhaps, 
may  be  a little  large — or  would  have  been  held 
so  in  the  days  when  keepsake  beauties  and  Cupid’s 
bows  were  the  mode — the  lips,  sensitive,  chiseled, 
mobile,  are  of  the  purest  Caucasian  type,  a type 
that  precludes  not  merely  the  suspicion  but  the 
possibility  of  creole  blood. 

And  on  the  day  she  is  twenty-three  she  will 
have  forty  thousand  pounds. 

Not  one  word  of  GalignanVs  two-days-old 
news  does  the  stranger  follow.  His  senses  are 
with  his  heart,  and  that  is  filled  with  golden  spec- 
ulations— golden  yet  hazardous  ! That  the  in- 
valid sipping  barley-water  is  Mr.  Conyngham  he 
feels  assured.  Few  habitual  travelers  in  the  dis- 
trict of  the  Riviera  but  know  Frederick  Conyng- 
ham by  sight.  The  identity  of  “ the  girl  with 
eager  eyes  and  yellow  hair”  belongs  still  to  the 
region  of  conjecture. 

‘‘If  you  only  knew  how  I like  cold  winds, 
papa  ! ” 


A LILY— PAINTED. 


45 


Papa  ! Doubt  in  a moment  has  become  assur- 
ance, to  be  quickly  followed  by  faith,  hope,  I 
know  not  what  other  train  of  pleasurable  emo- 
tions, in  the  stranger’s  mind. 

Mistral  cannot  be  worse  than  east  wind,  and 
at  Dulford  we  always  have  that  from  February  to 
June — yes,  and  go  out  in  it  every  day  of  our 
lives.” 

^‘You  are  not  sufficiently  protected  against 
these  climates.  Jet.  You  know  nothing  about  the 
pernicious  effects  of  mistral  or  sunset.  Now  if, 
instead  of  buying  so  many  new  bonnets  in  Par- 
is— ” 

Hats,  papa.  I have  never  yet  worn  a bon- 
net except  to  church — ” 

‘‘You  had  provided  yourself  with  a sensible 
furred  cloak  like  mine,  it  would  be  different.” 

“ But  I have  got  a thick  tweed  jacket,”  per- 
sists Jet.  “If  you  will  let  me  go  out  only  for 
half  an  hour,  I promise  to  put  on  my  tweed  jack- 
et.” 

Mr.  Con^gham  sips  his  barley-water  and  look:s 
as  though  he  heard  not.  Anxiety  about  other 
people’s  health  can  scarcely  be  considered  one  of 
his  foibles  ; neither  can  he  be  held  an  over-ner- 
vous parent.  During  Jet’s  nineteen  years  of  life, 
he  has  probably  not  spent  as  many  months  in  the 
girl’s  company.  Wrapped  in  his  furred  cloak,  he 
simply  looks  at  existence  through  a pair  of  smoke- 
colored  spectacles,  breathes  the  breath  of  life 


46  JET;  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

through,  a respirator,  and  feels  it  a kind  of  per- 
sonal injury  when  the  young  and  robust  refuse  to 
do  the  same. 

I see  a baker’s  shop  within  a hundred  yards 
of  the  hotel,”  remarks  J et,  presently  ; and  I do 
not  think  I ever  felt  so  hungry  before ; and  din- 
ner will  not  be  served  for  another  three  hours.” 

At  this  affecting  appeal,  or  rather  series  of  ap- 
peals, Mr.  Conyngham  shakes  his  head  gravely. 

There  is  no  worse  habit  than  that  of  eating 
between  meals,”  he  remarks.  It  is  sufficient  in 
itself  to  lay  the  foundation  of  almost  every  dis- 
order. Hungry  at  three  o’clock  ! And  we  had  a 
tolerable,  really  very  tolerable,  breakfast  at  noon.” 

‘^As  far  as  quality  goes,  the  breakfast  may 
have  been  unimpeachable,”  says  Jet ; “ but  you 
must  remember  I am  accustomed  to  solid  English 
food.  The  most  substantial  thing  I got  out  of 
the  whole  dozen  dishes  to-day  was  a cock-robin  in 
a paper  shirt.” 

“ Becassines,  my  love — ^becassines,  and  very  fair- 
ly dressed,  too,  for  a provincial  inn.” 

But  becassines  are  not  sustaining,  papa,  you 
must  allow  that.  Now,  if  I could  get  a bun — I 
suppose  they  make  buns  in  France? — or  a roll, 
just  to  carry  me  on  to  dinner.” 

‘^Take  a little  barley-water,  my  dear.  It  is 
surprising  what  nutritive  qualities  barley-water 
possesses.  Let  me  desire  Perugino  to  bring  you  a 
glass. 


A LILY—PALNTED. 


47 


I thank  you,  papa.  Aunt  Gwendoline  made 
me  drink  barley-water  once  when  I had  whooping* 
cough.  The  recollection  will  he  enough  for  the 
remainder  of  my  life.” 

Mr.  Conyngham  shuts  his  eyes,  and,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair,  puts  on  an  attitude  of  sleep. 
With  Jet’s  rejection  of  barley-water  he  evidently 
looks  upon  the  discussion  as  closed — ^rational  ar- 
gument useless.  But  Jet  is  not  yet  beaten.  Her 
arguments  up  to  the  present  time  have  been  based 
on  selfish  considerations  only.  How  if  this  mat- 
ter of  br-aving  mistral  and  sunset  could  be  shown 
to  affect  other  interests  than  her  own  ? 

‘‘We  have  no  grapes  for  to-morrow;  I have 
just  remembered  it ! And  Dr,  Hammond  ex- 
pressly said  you  should  not  be  without  fresh  fruit 
when  you  travel.  How  stupid  I must  have  been 
not  to  think  of  the  state  of  the  commissariat 
sooner ! ” 

“ Eh — how  ? ” cries  Mr.  Conyngham,  his  fac- 
ulties awakened  on  the  instant.  “ No  grapes  ? 
Oh,  this  will  never  do  ! — Perugino  ! — I must  trou- 
ble you,  my  dear  Jet,  to  ring  for  Perugino  at 
once.” 

“ Perugino  has  gone  out,”  says  Jet,  promptly. 
“ Don’t  you  remember  ? We  sent  him  to  the  sta- 
tion to  telegraph  about  a coupk  I saw  Perugino 
pass  down  the  street  not  three  minutes  ago.” 

“ If  I had  my  po.or  Paolo  ! ” murmurs  Mr. 
Conyngham,  sinking  back.  “ These  unhappy, 


48  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


these  culpable  oversights  never  occurred  in  Pa^ 
olo’s  time.” 

But  a fruit-market  is  quite  close  at  hand,” 
urges  J et.  I remember  passing  one  last  night 
on  our  way  from  the  gave.  If  you  would  only  let 
me — ” 

^^Put  on  your  wraps,  put  on  your  warmest 
wraps,  and  start,”  rejoins  Mr.  Conyngham,  in  an 
injured  voice.  ^‘The  wind  has  somewhat  abated; 
half  an  hour’s  sharp  walking  may  possibly  do  you 
good.  And  remember  that  the  Coteau-Brhle 
grapes — impress  that  name  on  y '>ur  mind,  ^ raisin 
de  Coteau-Brtile  ’ — are  the  be^t.  If  the  skins 
show  signs  of  dryness,  so  much  the  better.  I 
know,  on  respectable  medical  authority,  that  the 
Coteau-Brhle  grapes  are  wholesomest  after  the 
process  of  shriveling  has  set  in.” 

Jet  waits,  as  you  may  believe,  for  no  second 
permission.  Her  eyes,  her  face,  her  whole  figure, 
illumined  with  thankfulness  at  being  free  (al- 
though the  freedom  shall  last  but  the  space  of  a 
single  half-hour),  she  dances  away  like  a flash  of 
lightning  across  the  polished  floor  of  the  salon ; 
away  to  her  own  room  on  the  second  floor  ; then 
forth,  without  respirator,  blue  spectacles,  or  furs, 
into  the  bustle,  glare,  and  dust,  of  Avignon 
city. 

Mr.  Conyngham,  sipping  his  barley-water ; the 
stranger,  meditating  how  h|^  shall  best  renew  his 
acquaintance  with  the  father  of  forty  thousand 


A LILY—PAINTED. 


49 


pounds — already  Jet  is  pigeon-holed  as  “ forty 
thousand  pounds  ” in  his  thoughts — remain  alone. 

A baker’s  shop  and  the  fruit-market  lie  within 
a stone’s-throw  of  the  Hotel  de  I’Univers. 

Tenez,  ma  petite  demoiselle,  tenez — le  beau 
panier  pour  trente  sous,”  says  the  olive-cheeked, 
classic-featured  dame  de  la  halle,  as  Jet  stands 
waiting  for  her  grapes.  “ Cinq  livres  de  raisin, 
bon  raisin  de  Coteau-Brhle  pour  un  rien  ! ” 

Can  any  one  say  it  is  a bad  country  to  live  in 
where  the  sun  is  hot  enough  to  give  you  sunstroke 
in  November,  and  you  may  buy  five  pounds  of 
nectar-sweet  grapes  for  fifteen  pence  ? 

Her  marketing  accomplished.  Jet  Conyngham 
pursues  her  way  briskly  along  the  Quai  du  Rhone, 
the  fruit-basket  slung  upon  her  arm,  a foot-long 
pistolet  of  sour  bread  in  her  hand.  'The  blood 
stirs  in  her  veins  as  no  breeze  in  muggy  Devon- 
shire has  ever  stirred  it.  She  feels  it  a subtile 
kind  of  excitement  merely  to  breathe  ; feels  as 
though  a ten-mile  walk  before  dinner  would  just 
serve  to  rest,  not  exhaust,  the  desire  for  quick 
movement,  bright  sunshine,  cold  and  sparkling 
atmosphere,  that  is  in  her. 

The  mistral’s  blinding  glare,  the  mistral’s 
blinding  dust,  are  miseries  thrown  away  (like 
most  of  life’s  miseries)  upon  Jet.  She  has  got 
one  half-hour’s  freedom  in  which  to  explore  the 
lions  of  Avignon — the  broken  bridge,  the  Palace 
4 


50  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


of  the  Popes,  Laura’s  tomb — and  determines  to 
make  the  most  of  it. 

One  half-hour  ! And  the  sun,  when  she  start- 
ed, was  already  slanting  across  the  tall  roofs  of 
the  hotel ; and,  in  these  regions,  night,  like  win- 
ter, overtakes  you  at  a bound.  Well,  in  small 
things,  as  in  great  ones,  the  possibility  of  mis- 
chance seldom  finds  a place  in  Jet  Conyngham’s 
anticipations  ; she  flies  past  the  broken  bridge  ; 
she  glances  up  at  the  Palace  of  the  Popes  ; on 
her  homeward  road,  at  the  instance  of  a franc- 
seeking sacristan,  is  persuaded  to  visit  a church, 
mediaeval,  incense-fiavored,  garlic-haunted,  in  quest 
of  Laura’s  tomb.  Ten  minutes  later — emerging 
into  an  unknown  street,  and  by  an  ojeposite  door 
to  that  through  which  she  entered — the  girl  finds 
herself  benighted. 

‘‘  The  sun’s  rim  dips,  the  stars  rush  out — 

At  one  stride  comes  the  dark.” 

Jet  has,  literally,  to  rub  her  eyes  and  gaze  about 
her  ere  she  can  believe  in  the  reality  of  this  sud- 
den darkness.  Alas  ! the  sharj)  increase  of  cold  ; 
the  hush  that,  with  the  sun’s  departure,  has  fallen 
like  a cloak  upon  the  city  ; lastly,  the  fact  that 
the  old  sacristan  is  lighting  a lantern,  as  he  locks 
the  chancel-gates  behind  him,  confirm  it  only  too 
forcibly. 

This  sacristan,  carrying  his  church-keys  in  one 
hand,  a villainous  little  oil-lamp  in  the  other,  would 


A LILY— PAINTED. 


51 


seem  to  be  the  solitary  link  left  between  her  and 
the  living  world — her  one  uncertain  chance  of  get- 
ting back  from  mediaeval  shades  to  lighted  shop- 
windows,  paved  streets,  and  the  Hotel  de  FUni- 
vers,  to-night. 

And  she  follows  him. 

Never  was  will-o’-the-wisp  a more  fatal  guide. 
Down  one  narrow  alley,  up  another,  glimmers  the 
lantern,  clank  the  keys.  At  length,  in  a kind  of 
cul-de-sac^  narrower  and  darker  than  the  rest,  over- 
hanging roofs  and  upper  stories  shutting  out  all 
but  one  narrow  strip  of  sky  overhead,  the  sacristan 
— keys,  lantern,  and  all — disappears  as  suddenly 
as  a figure  in  a Christmas  pantomime.  There  is  a 
momentary  crash,  as  of  a porte-cochhre  swinging 
heavily  on  its  hinges,  a crash  echoed  and  reechoed 
down  the  length  of  the  whole  row  of  houses,  and 
Jet,  alone,  guideless,  trembling,  is  left  to  realize 
her  desolation. 

She  looks  fearfully  about  her  ; she  thinks  of 
her  father  ; she  thinks  of  Mark — for  the  first  time 
in  her  life  she  wishes  Mark  Austen  were  at  her 
side.  By-and-by  comes  the  sound  of  steps  ; a 
man’s  tread  draws  steadily  nigh  through  the  dark- 
ness, and  with  a beating  heart  Jet  nerves  herself 
for  the  worst. 

That  the  approaching  human  being  shall  prove 
a robber  is,  naturally,  the  first  idea  that_  presents 
itself  to  her  mind.  She  is  to  meet  her  fate  ” 
(though  after  a different  fashion  than  she  dreamed 


53  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

of)  here,  in  the  south.  Well,  she  has  about  her 
two  napoleons  in  gold,  seven  francs,  a watch,  a 
pair  of  sleeve-links,  and  five  pounds  of  Coteau- 
Brfile  grapes.  If  she  is  to  be  robbed,  most  proba- 
bly she  is  to  be  murdered  likewise.  Poor  little 
Cora  will  read  an  account  of  the  tragedy  in  the 
daily  papers — out  of  compliment  to  Aunt  Gwen- 
doline it  may  even  be  copied  into  the  Exeter  Els- 
patch. 

Miss  J et  Conyngham,  I believe  ? ” says  a voice. 
Ah,  that  welcome  English  voice,  coming  to  her  in 
her  direst  need— when  will  Jet  forget  its  accents? 
And  the  footsteps  cease. 


CHAPTER  V. 

BEAUTIFUL  BY  PROXY. 

The  new-comer  stands  in  the  middle  of  the 
narrow  street.  As  he  speaks,  a lamp,  carried  from 
one  window  to  another  in  the  neighboring  house, 
sends  a momentary  flash  of  light  across  his  face, 
and  Jet  remembers  him. 

You — you  were  in  the  salon  at  the  Hotel  de 
rXJnivers,  when  I left  papa.  How  in  the  world, 
sir,  did  you  come  to  recognize  me  here  ? ” 

To  this  point-blank  question,  a raw  lad  like 
Mark  Austen  might,  not  improbably,  give  a vera- 
cious reply  ; easing  his  conscience  by  the  confes- 


BEAUTIFUL  BY  PROXY. 


53 


sion  that  he  has,  in  fact,  dogged  her  footsteps  dur- 
ing the  last  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  awaiting 
the  most  effective  moment  for  his  self-introduc- 
tion ! The  stranger  is  a man  twelve  or  fifteen 
years  older  than  Mark  Austen — a man  of  the 
world,  not  wearing  his  heart,  if  he  possess  one, 
on  his  sleeve. 

These  chance  meetings  are  extraordinary,  are 
they  not  ? But  the  truth  is.  Miss  Conyngham,  I 
was  more  than  half  commissioned  by  your  father 
to  go  in  search  of  you.  I do  not  know  whether 
you  are  aware  of  it,”  he  adds,  ‘’but  you  have 
managed  to  find  your  way  into  the  most  cutthroat 
quarter  of  the  whole  city.” 

^‘Have  I?”  cries  Jet,  with  her  merry  laugh. 
“ Good  Heavens,  sir,  what  a Saladin  that  makes 
of  you  ! It  is  all  the  fault  of  Laura’s  tomb,  and 
of  a sacristan — a miserable  old  man  to  whom  I 
reputed  respectability  because  he  carried  a bunch 
of  church-keys.  It  has  taught  me  a lesson — ” 

Never  again  to  be  imposed  upon  by  the  gloss 
clerical,  I hope  ? ” 

Exactly.  Now,  unless  you  wish  to  assist  at 
your  own  assassination,  as  well  as  mine,  do  you 
not  think  it  would  be  well  for  us  to  make  a start  ? ” 
The  stranger  offers  his  arm  ; Jet  takes  it,  and 
five  minutes’  walking  through  a labyrinth  of  lanes, 
threaded  by  the  Englishman  with  the  ease  born 
of  long  acquaintance,  brings  them  into  the  Rue 
Calade  : a broad,  well-lighted  street,  where  may 


54  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


be  seen  oflScers  playing  dominoes  inside  handsome 
cafes ; coquettish  young  ladies  behind  the  coun- 
ters of  glove  and  cigar  shops  ; gas,  pavements, 
well-appointed  carriages,  civilization. 

And,  at  least,  we  are  in  no  further  danger  of 
our  lives,”  says  Jet  Conyngham,  drawing  her 
hand  from  beneath  her  protector’s  arm,  with  a 
tardy  recollection  of  the  conventionalities,  and  of 
the  circumstance  that,  as  yet,  she  does  not  know 
his  name.  I am  sure,  papa  and  I can  never  suf- 
ficiently thank  you,  as  a stranger,  for — ” 

‘^Mr.  Conyngham  and  myself  are  not  stran- 
gers to  each  other,”  interrupts  her  companion,  qui- 
etly. “ For  the  last  half-dozen  years,  at  least,  I 
have  had  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  Conyngham’s  ac- 
quaintance.” 

Which  just  takes  away  the  whole  edge  from 
the  situation,”  thinks  the  girl,  among  whose  vir- 
tues gratitude  does  not  seem  to  hold  a prominent 
place.  An  old  friend  of  papa’s  ! Somebody’s 
husband,  doubtless.  Most  probably  a clergyman. 
So  much  for  my  hero  ! ” 

And  she  turns,  shyness,  embarrassment — if,  in- 
deed, she  ever  was  threatened  by  such  weakness — 
at  an  end,  and  looks  at  him. 

He  is,  beyond  all  comparison,  the  most  (out- 
wardly) ‘‘  heroic  ” personage  who,  as  yet,  has 
crossed  the  prosaic  paths  of  Jet’s  life — the  colonel 
of  the  regiment,  Mark’s  rival  at  the  ill-fated  arch- 
ery-ball,  not  excepted — a tall,  black-haired  man  of 


BEAUTIFUL  BY  PROXY. 


55 


six  or  eight  and  thirty,  with  a head  finely  set  npon 
a pair  of  stalwart  English  shoulders,  with  even 
features,  clearly  cut  as  those  of  a stone  Antinous, 
with  iron-blue,  coldish  eyes  that  admirably  set  off 
the  pallid  olive  of  his  skin  ; a man  that  an  artist 
could  not  choose  but  look  after,  on  a city  pave- 
ment, or  in  ^ mountain  sierra,  clad  in  a Bond 
Street  ulster  ” or  a peasant’s  poncho^  in  broad- 
cloth or  in  rags ! 

At  the  present  moment  he  wears  a suit  of  the 
nondescript  gray  in  which  Englishmen  ordinarily 
pursue  their  travels  ; a scarf  containing  just  the 
smallest  dash  of  color  round  his  throat.  Jet  Con- 
yngham  (her  quick  girl’s  eye  taking  in  every  de- 
tail of  his  appearance  at  a glance)  feels  reassured 
as  to  clause  number  two  of  her  own  suppositions, 
by  that  dash  of  color.  A peripatetic  clergyman 
may  wear  a coat  of  any  hue,  even  of  any  cut,  if 
his  views  be  sufficiently  broad  ; a tie  with  a dash 
of  color  in  it  never.  As  regards  the  question  of 
his  being  somebody’s  husband,  or  a free  man,  she 
must  remain  in  doubt — but  only  for  another  two 
minutes.  An  incident,  trifling  in  itself,  however 
fruitful  of  untoward  consequences,  sets  the  mat- 
ter at  rest  for  her. 

Coming  out  of  the  Rue  Calade,  a short,  glass- 
covered  passage,  on  the  right,  leads  toward  the 
Place  Crillon.  In  this  little  arcade  may  be  found 
some  of  the  best  shops  in  Avignon  ; among  others, 
a modiste^s,  its  windows  well  stocked,  not  with 


56  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

Parisian  chiffons^  but  with  the  unchanging  fashion 
of  the  district,  the  graceful  peasant-coilfures  of 
Arles,  Avignon,  and  Orange. 

Jet  lingers,  drawn  by  the  instinct  that  must 
ever  attract  a pretty  woman  toward  becoming 
head-gear.  Her  companion,  as  in  courtesy  bound, 
lingers  also. 

‘^Mademoiselle  Palmieri.  Nouveautes.” 

The  stranger  reads  aloud  the  name  that,  in  gas- 
illumined  capitals,  flares  above  the  central  win- 
dow ; then,  taking  forth  a letter  from  his  pocket, 
he  bends  forward  to  the  light,  opens  and  exam- 
ines it. 

“We  spoke  of  chance  meetings.  Miss  Conyng- 
ham.  Here  is  another  whimsical  accident.  I re- 
ceived a letter  from  Italy  this  afternoon — a letter 
from  a lady,  I need  hardly  say — asking  me,  if  I 
stopped  in  Avignon,  to  purchase  some  kind  of 
flnery  at  the  shop  of  Mademoiselle  Palmieri.  The 
commission  was  put  out  of  my  head — by  subjects 
of  greater  interest,”  says  the  Englishman,  gallant- 
ly ; “ but  a man  cannot  escape  his  fate  in  these 
things.  Here  I am,  without  will  of  my  own, 
standing  before  Mademoiselle  Palmieri’s  very 
window — ” 

“Ready  to  execute  your  correspondent’s  or- 
ders ! I have  no  doubt,”  says  the  girl,  “ that  you 
are  an  excellent  judge  in  matters  of  millinery. 
Some  gentlemen,  I have  heard — married  men,  of 
course  ” (this  in  a tone  of  profound  compassion) 


BEAUTIFUL  BY  PROXY. 


57 


— “ will  buy  you  a bonnet  or  a hat  better  than 
you  could  buy  it  for  yourself.” 

^‘Unfortunately,  the  gift  is  denied  me.  I 
know  when  I see  a handsome  girl  becomingly 
dressed.”  Something  in  his  tone  converts  the  re- 
mark into  a compliment.  Jet  Conyngham  blush- 
es. “ There  my  science  ends.  But  you  must  re- 
member,” he  adds,  “ that  I can  plead  extenuating 
circumstances.  I have  no  wife  to  educate  my 
tastes.” 

“ Really  ! ” cries  Jet,  without  a moment’s  hesi- 
tation, and  in  her  most  mocking  voice.  “ And  I 
felt  so  sure^  so  absolutely  convinced,  that  you  were 
married.” 

Which  betrays  that  she  was  sufficiently  inter- 
ested in  the  contingency  to  speculate  about  it. 

The  stranger  smiles — in  the  depths  of  his  own 
consciousness,  not  with  his  lips. 

“ If  it  were  half  an  hour  earlier.  Miss  Conyng- 
ham, I should  ask  you,  short  though  our  acquaint- 
ance is,  to  do  me  a favor — assist  me  with  your 
taste  in  carrying  out  ‘my  correspondent’s  or- 
ders.’” 

“ It  is  only  half -past  five.  There  is  time,  and 
to  spare,”  answers  Jet,  with  her  customary  frank- 
ness. “ Papa  always  goes  to  his  room  for  an  hour 
before  dinner — my  literary  resources  are  com- 
prised in  an  invalid  guide-book  and  the  Indica* 
teur.  Help  me  to  kill  the  next  sixty  minutes,  and 
the  favor  will  be  on  my  side.” 


58  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


You  are  quite  sure  you  do  not  think  me  im- 
pertinent ? ” 

“ I am  quite  sure  that  I like  looking  over  pret- 
ty things,  even  though  I may  he  only  required  to 
officiate  as  a milliner’s  block.” 

Then  I shall  take  you  at  your  word.” 

He  pushes  open  the  door.  A dark-eyed  little 
Frenchwoman,  making  up  her  day’s  accounts  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  shop,  comes  forward,  with 
a smile  and  a salutation,  to  know  what  monsieur 
and  madame  desire. 

Monsieur  and  madame,  after  the  former  has 
referred  to  a letter  that  we  know,  desire  a black- 
velvet  Arles  coiffure,  to  be  worn  by  an  English 
lady  as  an  evening  head-dress. 

‘‘A  young  lady,  of  course?”  remarks  Jet, 
when  the  milliner  has  set  forth  her  wares,  “Your 
friend  is  as  young  as  I am,  sir — younger  ? ” 

“ Not  younger,  certainly,”  is  the  stranger’s  an- 
swer. 

“But  a girl — under  five-and-twenty  — under 
thirty  ? You  know,  you  really  must  give  me  some 
idea  of  her  age.  A head-dress  like  this,”  taking 
off  her  hat,  as  she  speaks,  and  bending  her  sunny 
head  low  enough  for  the  little  modiste  to  reach  it 
— “ a head-dress  like  this  v/oiild  be  grotesque,  a 
case  for  the  police,  surmounting  wrinkles  and 
gray  hairs.” 

“ Wrinkles  and  gray  hairs  belong  to  history,” 
says  the  stranger,  with  gravity.  “ In  these  days 


BEAUTIFUL  BY  PROXY. 


59 


every  woman  is — the  age  she  believes  herself  to 
look.” 

‘‘What  good  news  for  me!”  exclaims  Jet; 
“ I shall  never  believe  myself  to  look  a day  over 
three-and-twenty.” 

Three-and-twenty  ! The  age  at  which  she  will 
become  possessed  of  forty  thousand  pounds  ! 

It  is  impossible  that  the  thought  of  gold  can 
cast  a real,  objective  halo  round  the  face  and  head 
of  a pretty  girl.  And  still,  at  this  moment,  some 
subtile  increase  of  beauty  does  seem  to  accrue  to 
Jet  Conyngham  in  the  stranger’s  sight. 

She  possesses,  in  a quite  unique  degree,  the 
gift  of  adaptability,  a natural,  instinctive  fitness 
for  all  artistic  or  histrionic  effect — a gift,  delight- 
ful as  it  is  rare.  Beauty,  in  the  great  majority 
of  cases,  is  sadly  prone  to  run  in  grooves.  You 
will  find  one  woman  whose  specialty  is  a Spanish 
mantilla  and  a yellow  rose — always  a Spanish  man- 
tilla and  a yellow  rose  ; another,  who  looks  divine 
in  a Madonna  kerchief — always  and  unchangeably 
a Madonna  kerchief.  A third  is  unapproachable 
as  a Greek — only  as  a Greek.  Let  Jet  Conyng- 
ham array  herself  in  what  she  will — yes,  though 
it  be  the  last  enormity  in  the  way  of  a fashionable 
gown  or  bonnet,  and — true  Cynthia  of  the  min- 
ute— she  suits  the  dress,  or  the  dress  her  (how 
shall  we  analyze  this  untaught,  unteachable  art  of 
harmony),  without  an  effort. 

“ If  it  were  possible  to  look  beautiful  by  proxy, 


60  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


the  Arles  coiffure  might  well  become  the  rage,” 
observes  the  stranger,  as  the  little  Frenchwoman, 
on  tiptoe,  unpins  the  black- velvet  loops  from  Jet’s 
blond  head.  But  it  is  a fashion  few  faces  could 
stand.” 

Except  mine,  of  course,”  says  the  girl,  with 
a quick  look — a look  that  he  cannot  feel  to  be  alto- 
gether one  of  encouragement,  and  putting  on  her 
hat  without  a glance  at  any  of  the  mirrors  with 
which  the  shop  is  lined — mine  and  the  myste- 
rious friend’s,  the  lady  who  is  no  particular  age  to 
speak  of  ! Now,  sir,  if  your  purchases  are  made, 
we  will  start,  please.  This  looking  beautiful  by 
proxy  has  taken  up  more  time  than  I thought 
for.” 

A minute’s  walking  brings  them  to  the  side- 
entrance  of  the  Hotel  de  I’Univers.  When  they 
have  got  half-way  across  the  court-yard  Jet 
pauses. 

I shall  run  up  to  papa’s  room  at  once,  and  set 
his  mind  at  rest  about  my  safety.  This  will  en- 
tail a narrative  of  events,  and  a narrative,  to  be 
coherent,  requires  names,  does  it  not  ? ” 

Her  eyes  finish  the  remainder  of  the  question — 
and  a question  to  which  the  stranger  replies  by 
taking  a card  from  his  pocket-book. 

“Names  do  not  really  signify,”  remarks  Jet, 
with  dignity,  and  bestowing  no  downward  glance 
upon  the  bit  of  pasteboard  she  holds  between  her 
fingers  ; “ I could  think  of  a friend — I mean,  of 


ins  REVERENCE  AND  MIL  AD  T. 


61 


some  one  to  whom  I had  talked  for  half  an  hour — 
quite  as  pleasantly  without  a name  as  with  one. 
But  papa  is  methodical  in  these  trifles.” 

Mr.  Conyngham  knows  my  name  well,”  re- 
turns the  stranger,  raising  his  hat  in  acknowledg- 
ment of  his  dismissal.  I hope  it  will  not  always, 
be  unfamiliar  to  his  daughter.” 

And  they  separate. 

Jet  walks  in  with  her  stateliest  air,  her  head 
raised  well  aloft,  as  long  as  it  is  possible  for  her 
new  acquaintance  to  see  her.  Then,  with  a step 
like  lightning,  she  runs  up  the  winding  stone  esca- 
lier^  and  makes  for  the  solitary  gas-lamp  that  is 
burning  in  the  corridor  of  the  first  floor. 

The  card  contains  neither  title  nor  address, 
only  two  words,  printed,  foreign-fashion,  in  small, 
Roman  capitals  : 

Laurence  Biron.” 


CHAPTER  VI. 

HIS  REVERENCE  AND  MILADI. 

^^‘His  reverence  and  miladi.’  Why,  my  dear 
madam,  it  is  a story  of  five  years’  standing.  Ever 
since  poor  Sir  George’s  death — ’twould  be  scandal 
against  Queen  Elizabeth  to  say  before — the  two 
names  have  been  familiar  to  the  ear  as  household- 
words  from  one  end  of  the  Riviera  to  the  other,” 


62  JET;  HER  RACE  OR  HER  EORTlJNE? 


A very  young  old  gentleman  and  a very  old 
young  lady  are  talking  over  their  neighbors’  char- 
acters with  zest.  The  hour,  nine  of  the  evening  ; 
the  scene,  a vast  and  well-filled  salon  in  the  Grand 
Hotel  Paradis,  at  Esterel. 

On  the  centre  ottoman  of  the  room  is  Jet  Con- 
yngham,  conspicuous  alike  by  her  position,  her 
animated  beauty,  and  the  fact  that  the  Reverend 
Laurence  Biron  is  at  her  side.  Mr.  Conyngham  oc- 
cupies the  most  comfortable,  most  sought-for  sofa 
the  salon  possesses.  A half -pretty  Scottish  widow, 
holding  serious  views,  and  wearing  a Marie-Stuart 
cap,  pays  him  attention.  Around  the  room  are 
scattered  whist-players  ; players  at  gobang,  Ve- 
sique,  chess  ; players,  even,  to  the  unhappiness 
and  confusion  of  their  fellows,  of  the  piano- 
forte. 

One  or  two  mild,  very  mild  fiirtations  seem  at- 
tempting to  struggle  into  existence  ; but  furtively, 
precariously.  The  masculine  elements  of  the  as- 
sembly are  mostly  lads  in  the  first  stage  of  shy- 
ness, or  old  gentlemen  in  the  last  stage  of  senility, 
and,  numerically,  stand  in  a proportion  of  about 
one  to  five  toward  the  stronger,  more  independent 
sex. 

These,  the  strong  and  independent,  muster  in 
force.  Ladies  traveling  without  their  husbands, 
ladies  in  charge  of  husbands,  ladies  regretting  hus- 
bands— each  of  these  classes,  the  last  more  espe- 
cially, would  seem  to  have  representatives  present, 


Hig  REVERENCE  AND  MILADI. 


63 


while  of  robust-minded  spinsters,  come  to  years 
of  maturity.  . . . 

‘‘We  girls  should  not  be  over-severe  on  each 
other,  I know,”  says  Miss  Wylie,  the  old  young 
lady  whose  conversation  with  the  young  old  gen- 
tleman I have  interrupted.  “Still,  if  this  other 
unhappy  entanglement  exists — ” 

“ As  it  certainly  does  exist,”  interpolates  the 
gentleman,  with  decision. 

“ I call  it  positively  culpable  for  such  attentions 
to  be  encouraged—attentions  that  may  almost  be 
looked  upon  as  those  of  a married  man  ! Pray, 
Major  Brett,  do  you  believe — you  naughty  creat- 
ure, who  have  so  little  faith  in  anything — in  this 
story  of  Miss  Conyngham’s  being  heiress  to  forty 
thousand  pounds  ? ” 

And  Miss  Wylie  shakes  back  a crop  of  ring- 
lets— ringlets  belonging,  alas  ! too  palpably  to  the 
beautiful  forever  order  of  charms — and  looks  up, 
with  infantine  curiosity,  in  the  old  major’s  face. 

She  is  a giddy,  artless  thing  of  eight  or  nine 
and  thirty,  traveling  alone.  “ Naughty  girl  that 
I am,”  confesses  Miss  Wylie,  prettily,  with  her 
maid,  in  search  of  climate — climate  and  the  affec- 
tions, like  the  lady  in  “ Lothair.”  Somewhat  cold- 
ly looked  upon  by  her  own  sex.  Miss  Wylie’s  in- 
experience renders  her  a haunting  terror  and 
affliction  to  every  Englishman  she  comes  across. 
For,  guileless  in  all  things,  it  is  in  money-matters 
more  especially  that  her  ignorance  of  the  world 


64  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


is  apt  to  show  itself.  Either  she  has  forgotten  to 
provide  herself  with  circular  notes,  or  a letter  of 
credit  is  wrongly  dated,  or  there  is  no  making 
these  foreign  people  of  business  understand  the 
value  of  checks,  and  would  you,  although  you  first 
had  the  honor  of  her  acquaintance  at  the  table 
d'^hote  yesterday,  assist  her  with  your  advice,  or 
introduce  her  to  your  banker,  or  write  your  name 
— of  course,  gentlemen  understood  these  formali- 
ties better  than  we  girls  can — upon  the  back  of 
her  little  bills  ? Poor  Miss  Wylie ! Who  and 
what  she  really  is,  whence  she  comes,  whither  she 
goes— these  are  problems  of  which  living  man  has 
not  yet'  found  the  satisfactory  solution. 

Forty  thousand  pounds  is  a sum  worth  run- 
ning risks  for  under  any  circumstances,”  remarks 
Major  Brett,  with  guarded  vagueness.  But 
when  to  forty  thousand  pounds  you  add,  not  a 
Miss  Kilmansegg,  but  a handsome  girl  of  nine- 
teen, one  cannot  wonder  that  even  the  Reverend 
Laurence  Biron  should  be  tempted  into  playing  a 
hazardous  game.  And  a hazardous  game  it  is,” 
muses  the  old  major,  crossing  his  arms,  and  look- 
ing up,  with  a Lord  Burleigh  shake  of  the  head, 
at  the  ceiling  ; a deuced  hazardous  game  for  a 
penniless  fellow  like  his  reverence  to  begin  play- 
ing fast  and  loose  with  a woman  the  age  and  tem- 
per of  miladi.” 

Major  Brett  is  the  most  curiously  well-preserved 
little  octogenarian  extant.  He  acknowledges  to 


ms  revesrexVce  a^)  miladi. 


65 


tlie  fourscore  years  himself,  so  I may  venture  upon 
setting  them  down  in  black  and  white  without  ex- 
tenuation. Not  a wrinkle  has  time  written  on  his 
smooth,  whiskerless,  red-sienna  face;  his  teeth  are 
a marvel ; his  faculties  of  sight  and  hearing  in- 
tact. Walking  behind  him,  as  he  trots  briskly 
about  the  streets  of  Esterel,  newsmongerlng  ” 
away  the  hours  between  mid-day  breakfast  and 
six-o’clock  dinner,  a stranger  would  probably  rate 
him  as  a man  under  fifty — would,  I am  sure,  back 
his  chances  at  an  insurance-office  against  half  the 
men  of  fifty  of  his  acquaintance.  He  dresses,  in- 
variably, d la  Thiers^  in  brown  : a long  brown 
frock-coat,  with  velvet  collar ; pantaloons  of  the 
same  color,  but  a shade  lighter  than  the  coat ; a 
brown  felt  hat;  a white  cambric  necktie,  in  which 
is  pinned  an  amethyst  brooch  ; and  a fiaxen  wig. 

There  are  persons  living  who  remember  Major 
Brett,  brown  coat,  amethyst  brooch,  tie,  wig,  and 
all,  a flaneur  of  the  boulevards  in  the  days  of 
Louis  Philippe. 

Half  an  hour’s  chat  with  the  old  man  is  as 
amusing  as  a chapter  of  Raikes — Raikes,  Ibut  with 
a goodly  sprinkling  of  Horace  Walpole’s  spite. 
What  dynasties  he  has  seen  totter,  what  men  and 
women  fall,  what  hopes,  what  loves,  what  hatreds, 
pass  to  their  common  grave  ! And  how  clearly 
he  remembers  details,  great  and  small,  social  and 
political — such  details,  especially,  as  throw  light 
upon  his  own  Walpolean  views  of  human  nature  ! 


66  Jfi'l’:  her  face  or  HER  FORTUNE? 


Some  octogenarians  you  will  meet,  admirable 
narrators  of  fifty-years-old  gossip,  but  dead  to  tbe 
hearsays  of  thb  hour.  Not  so  the  little  old  ma- 
jor. He  spends  his  winters,  as  regularly  as  Fred- 
erick Conyngham  himself,  in  the  south,  and  is  ac- 
quainted with  all  the  knowable  (some  few  unknow- 
able) characters  between  Marseilles  and  Naples. 
An  adept  in  every  branch  of  scandal,  in  scandals 
matrimonial,  the  specialty  of  the  district,  he  is 
unapproachable.  The  precise  words  that  A and 
B said  to  each  other  for  the  last  time— what  they 
wrote,  what  they  thought,  what  they  ought  to 
have  thought,  what  they  did  not  think  — in  all 
these  delicate,  finishing  strokes,  master-touches, 
over  which  your  mere  vulgar  Paul  Pry  invariably 
bungles,  he  is  unerring.  An  old  bachelor  himself, 
a bachelor  in  the  story  of  whose  fourscore  years 
of  life  no  whisper  of  a love-affair  finds  place,  he 
has  an  absolute  genius  for  chronicling  the  mar- 
riage hopes  and  joys,  the  settlements,  unions, 
jealousies,  separations,  of  other  men. 

‘^Lady  Austen  is  in  the  enjoyment  of  just 
nine  hundred  a year.  You  understand,  my  dear 
madam,  that  this  conversation  is  strictly  between 
ourselves?  Nine  hundred  a year,  representing 
some  eighteen  thousand  pounds  of  capital,  over 
which  her  control  is  absolute.  Well,  she  and  her 
son  do  not  get  on — ” 

“ Lady  Austen  has  a son  ? ” 

A very  fine  young  fellow  of  one  or  two  and 


HTS  REVERENCE  AND  MILADI. 


67 


twenty,  but  who  does  not  care  for  the  Reverend 
Laurence  Biron  naturally.  If  he  had  chosen  it, 
Biron,  I suppose,  might  have  made  the  nine  hun- 
dred a year  his  own  a twelvemonth  and  a day 
after  Sir  George’s  death.  But  he  did  not  choose 
it.  There,  perhaps,  one  respects  the  fellow.  He 
did  not  without  a struggle  bow  his  neck  to  such  a 
bondage.” 

Mr.  Laurence  Biron  seems  to  me  to  have  so 
sadly  little  of  the  clergyman  about  him,”  de- 
plores Miss  Wylie,  with  pathos. 

Old  Major  Brett  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

Biron  is  a bit  of  a chameleon,  no  doubt. 
Carries  an  assortment  of  neckties  about  with  him 
in  his  portmanteau,  and  is  prepared  at  any  mo- 
ment to  hoist  whatever  color  it  may  be  most  ex- 
pedient to  sail  under.  In  the  society  of  miladi  he 
has  to  wear  the  regulation  turn-do^vn  collar,  with 
coat-tails  to  his  heels.  Lady  Austen  is  a stanch 
upholder  of  liveries  and  titles.  She  used  to  bring 
in  poor  Sir  George’s  ^ K.  C.  B.’  on  her  invitation- 
cards  ; has  been  known  to  dismiss  a servant  for 
addressing  her  otherwise  than  as  ^ miladi ; ’ and 
never  speaks  of  Biron  without  giving  him  his  pre- 
fix of  ‘reverend.’  That  is  how  they  originally 
came  by  their  cognomens — ‘his  reverence’  and 
^miladi.’” 

“ His  reverence  does  not  look  particularly  rev- 
erend at  this  moment,”  Miss  Wylie  remarks,  with 
severity. 


68  mu  faoj  oa  liEii  ioiiTuNE? 

No  ; as  Miss  Conyngham’s  suitor  we  behold 
Mr.  Biron  a layman  full-blown.  A¥hen  he  has 
married  a wife  with  forty  thousand  pounds,  he 
will  have  the  delightful  liberty  of  remaining  a lay- 
man forever ! ” 

Not,”  says  Miss  Wylie,  emphatically,  “a  very 
irreparable  loss  to  the  Church  of  England  or  to 
any  church  ! ” 

When  he  marries  a wife  with  forty  thousand  ^ 
pounds,”  repeats  Major  Brett  (a  look  round  his 
thin  old  lips  that  might  well  chill  Laurence  Biron’s 
hopes  could  he  behold  it).  “My  dear  lady,  I do 
not  pretend  to  greater  wisdom  than  my  fellows, 
but  I should  like  to  take  any  number  of  bets,  to 
give  any  amount  of  odds,  in  the  matter  of  his  rev- 
erence (after  all,  one  feels  sorry  for  the  man)  and 
that  forty  thousand  pounds.” 

“She  has  not  got  it?  Miss  Jet  Conyngham’s 
face  is  her  only  fortune?”  suggests  Miss  Wylie, 
eagerly. 

Major  Brett  passes  his  fingers — smooth,  little, 
Trhite  fingers  they  are — through  the  wavelets  of 
his  peruke. 

“If  Biron  displays  one-half  the  sense  I give 
him  credit  for,  he  will  keep  his  ambition  within 
the  limits  of  the  known.  Lady  Austen’s  comfort- 
able income,  those  good,  solid  nine  hundred  pounds 
a year,  are  facts  beyond  the  reach  of  cavil.” 

But  Miss  Wylie’s  thirst  for  knowledge  is  not 
to  be  quenched  by  crude  generalities. 


HIS  REVERENCE  AND  MILADI. 


69 


You  -know  more  than  you  choose  to  tell  me, 
bad  man,”  she  whispers,  lifting  a playful  forefin- 
ger of  reproach.  Why,  I have  heard  you  say  that 
you  and  Mr.  Conyngham  have  been  meeting  each 
other  for  the  last  five-and-twenty  years.  How  can 
you  possibly  be  uncertain  as  to  whether  his  daugh- 
ter is  an  heiress  ? ” 

Who  says  that  I am  uncertain  ? ” returns  the 
major,  with  an  air  of  innocent  frankness.  I am, 
on  the  contrary,  perfectly  positive  that  Frederick 
Conyngham’s  daughter  is  an  heiress.  He  married 
— let  me  see,  what  year  was  it  in  ? I returned  to 
London  in  May.  Palmerston  was  premier — one 
of  the  fullest  seasons  ever  known — exactly  four- 
and-twenty  years  ago  next  spring.  Conyngham 
married  a lady  all  the  young  fellows  in  Ilorence 
were  wild  about — a West  Indian  octoroon.” 

An  octoroon  ! Well,  now  you  mention  it,” 
says  Miss  Wylie,  giving  a meaning  glance  at  Jet’s 
rose-and- white  English  face — noAv  you  mention 
it,  I do  see  a decided  coarseness  about  the  poor 
girl’s  lips.” 

^^Do  you,  indeed  ? ” cries  the  old  major,  with 
a chuckle.  There,  my  dear  madam,  you  have 
the  advantage  of  me.  I see  no  trace  of  coarse- 
ness, no  hint  whatsoever  of  the  negro,  in  Miss  Jet 
Conyngham.  But,  then,  I’m  getting  old— old, 
and  my  sight  fails  me  ! Yes,  Conyngham  married 
this  West  Indian  lady,  and,  by  the  will  of  an  uncle 
who  died  six  months  after  tjie  mamage,  the  sum 


70  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

of  forty  thousand  pounds  was  left  strictly  tied  up 
to  her  child  or  children.  There  is  no  manner  of 
doubt  as  to  the  facts.” 

‘‘And  still  you  would  make  any  number  of  ad- 
verse bets  with  regard  to  Mr.  Laurence  Biron  and 
the  forty  thousand  pounds  ? ” 

“Still  I would  make  any  number  of  adverse 
bets  with  regard  to  Biron’s  chance  of  possessing 
the  forty  thousand  pounds. — Ah,  what  have  we 
there  ? Open  windows — draughts  ! ” And  the  lit- 
tle old  major  springs  to  his  feet,  not  sorry,  it  may 
be,  of  a diversion  that  enables  him  to  effect  a 
retreat  from  Miss  Wylie.  “The  great  window- 
war  commencing ! I must  go  and  stand  by — see 
that  there  is  fair  fighting  and  no  favor  on  both 
sides.” 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MOONLIGHT,  OR  ASPHYXIATION? 

Whoever  has  passed  his  winters  in  any  of  the 
monster  sanitariums,  the  great  hotel-hospitals  along 
the  Mediterranean  coast,  must  have  learned  that 
society  in  such  latitudes  is  prone  to  be  factious, 
’Tis  like  life  on  shipboard.  A hundred  or  more 
chance-assorted  individuals  find  themselves  bound, 
during  a certain  inevitable  number  of  months,  to 
eat  three  meals  a day  in  company,  to  exchange 
civilities,  to  play  whist  together,  to  consult  each 
Other’s  tastes,  to  listen  to  each  other’s  music,  to 


MOONLIGHT,  OR  ASPHYXIATION  ? 


71 


laugh  at  each  other’s  jokes.  And,  by  the  time 
every  man  has  well  learned  his  neighbor’s  name, 
the  human  nature  of  the  hund  red  chance -assorted 
individuals  begins  to  show  itself.  Two  or  three 
marked  characters,  people  gifted  by  Nature  with 
the  dangerous  talent  for  leadership,  have  emerged 
a head  and  shoulders  above  the  crowd.  They 
have  followers,  they  have  rivals,  they  have  desert- 
ers— the  spirit  of  faction  once  fairly  aroused,  and 
no  one  knows  whom  he  may  call  his  friend.  The 
people  who  think  as  you  do,  the  people  who  do 
not  think  as  you  do,  are  alike  unreliable.  What 
principles,  what  absence  of  principles,  can  stand 
upright  under  the  combined  influences  of  absolute 
idleness,  and  of  little  cherished  pers^onal  likings 
or  dislikings  perpetually  trodden  under  foot  ? 

Thus  : you  start  for  your  afternoon’s  walk 
among  the  olives,  on  terms  of  amity  with  your 
next-door  neighbor.  Number  Nineteen,  divided 
from  you,  alas ! by  the  thinnest  partition  of  lath 
and  plaster,  a structure  all  too  frail  for  human 
friendship  to  depend  upon.  You  return,  looking 
forward  to  your  quiet  hour  of  writing,  smoking, 
or  sleeping,  before  dinner,  and  find  Number  Nine- 
teen has  started  an  harmonium ! He  who  pro- 
fessed a degree  of  sympathy  with  your  Pastes, 
and  who  knows  that  he  has  got  you,  helpless,  in 
his  power  for  the  next  three  months  to  come,  has 
started  an  harmonium ! 

You  try,  weakly,  to  appeal  to  his  finer  feelings. 


^2  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

You  are  delicate,  and  your  hour  of  sleep  before 
dinner  does  more  for  you  than  physic  or  physician. 
You  are  poor,  and  your  little  bit  of  pre-prandial 
scribbling  just  enables  you  to  meet  your  weekly 
hotel-bills.  Finer  feelings  ! The  man  is  an  egoist, 
a fanatic  for  music — his  own  music,  well  under- 
stood— and  has  none.  The  doctors  tell  him  he 
must  occupy  himself.  His  passion  is  Mozart.  He 
proposes  to  work  steadily  through  the  whole  of 
Mozart’s  masses  (on  the  harmonium)  during  the 
course  of  the  winter.  And  you  carry  your  com- 
plaints to  the  bureau — the  bureau  where,  so  a 
printed  form  in  every  room  asserts,  all  complaints 
find  redress. 

M.  le  Proprietaire,  a migratory  Prussian,  is  cut 
to  the  heart  that  the  tastes  of  Numbers  Eighteen 
and  Nineteen  should  differ ; will  use  his  best  en- 
deavors to  have  matters  arranged  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  both.  M.  le  Secretaire,  a Frenchman,  is 
desolated  ; he  adds  his  regret,  his  promises,  to 
those  of  the  patron,  and  bov/s  to  the  ground  as  he 
holds  open  the  door  of  the  bureau  for  you  to  de- 
part. Neither  of  them  remembers  your  wrongs, 
or  your  existence,  for  five  minutes. 

For  two  days  you  and  the  man  with  the  har 
monium  do  not  speak.  On  the  third  day  the  Po- 
lish countess,  of  unknown  antecedents,  on  the  floor 
immediately  above  you  both,  begins  a series  of 
little  afternoon-teas,  with  dancing.  You  make 
up  your  feuds,  and  join  issue  against  the  mon- 


MOONLIGHT,  OR  ASPHYXIATION? 


73 


strous  innovation.  You  go  down,  this  time  to- 
gether, to  the  bureau.  Again  the  proprietor  is 
cut  to  the  heart.  Again  the  secretary  is  deso- 
lated. Neither  of  them  stirs  an  inch.  By  the 
day  after  to-morrow  the  countess  has  invited  you 
to  one  of  her  little  parties.  You  think  her  a 
charming  woman  ; rather  like  than  dislike  the 
cheerful  sound  of  dancing  from  an  upper  floor ; 
and,  on  the  question  of  antecedents,  are  prepared 
to  fight  her  battles  against  all  comers.  At  the 
end  of  a fortnight  you  receive  a hint  that  the 
lady,  among  her  other  accomplishments,  draws 
capital  character-sketches.  Well,  if  you  insist 
upon  hearing  the  truth,  it  was  a little  harmless 
caricature  of  yourself  that  was  furtively  handed 
about  last  night  in  the  salon,  and  over  which 
everybody,  your  friend  Number  Nineteen  in  par- 
ticular, looked  so  deliciously  amused. 

The  Grand  Hotel  Paradis  at  the  present  time, 
the  second  week  only  of  November,  is  already  cut 
up  into  the  usual  cliques  and  factions.  There  are 
the  people  who  have  musical  instruments,  and 
those  whom  musical  instruments  drive  wild.  There 
are  people  with  dogs,  with  birds,  with  sewing- 
machines,  with  nurseries.  There  are  the  serious- 
minded  promoters  of  meetings,  who  would  turn 
the  salon  into  a conventicle.  There  are  the  light- 
minded  upholders  of  private  theatricals,  who  would 
convert  the  salon  into  a stage.  All  these  minor 
sources  of  discontent,  however,  these  trifling  dis- 


74  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


parities  of  taste  and  feeling,  are  as  nothing  before 
the  great  civil  war  which  convulses  the  hotel  to 
its  centre  on  the  subject  of  ventilation.  Are  the 
windows  of  the  Paradis  to  be  kept  open,  or  are 
they  to  be  kept  shut,  throughout  the  ensuing  win- 
ter? 

A small,  very  small,  minority  of  the  body  pol- 
itic remains  neutral ; thinks  something  may  be 
urged  on  either  side ; that  the  opening  of  the 
windows  should  depend  upon  the  state  of  the  ex- 
ternal atmosphere,  or  upon  the  general  vote  of  such 
number  of  invalids  as  may  happen  to  be  present. 
But  the  opinions  of  these  cold-blooded  reasoners 
go  for  little.  Read  history  if  you  would  see  how 
much  influence  men  of  common-sense,  trimmers,” 
disciples  of  compromise,  have  ever  obtained  in 
great  popular  questions,  disturbing  the  peace,  and 
agitating  the  passions  of  their  fellows  ! 

‘^Nail  the  windows  up  for  good,  close  doors 
and  passages  hermetically  ; render  draughts  im- 
possible ! ” 

So  say  one-half  of  the  English  people  inhabit- 
ing the  Paradis. 

Keep  the  windows  permanently  opened,  night 
and  day.  Take  out  top  panes.  Render  the  re- 
breathing of  vitiated  air  impossible  ! ” 

Thus  speaks  the  opposition. 

And  both  sides  have  the  advantage  of  fine 
generalship.  On  both  sides  are  chiefs,  prepared 
for  a lengthened  campaign,  and  ready  to  dispute 


MOONLIGHT,  OR  ASPHYXIATION? 


75 


inch  by  inch  of  vantage-ground,  even  at  the  point 
of  the  sword. 

An  irascible  old  lady  of  rheumatic  diathesis 
and  implacable  watchfulness,  an  old  lady  holding 
good,  old-school  doctrines  as  to  night  air  and 
chills,  and  who,  if  need  were,  would  deprive  her- 
self of  lawful  rest  and  food  the  better  to  scan  the 
movements  of  her  adversary — this  is  the  leader  of 
the  conservatives.  A gentleman  somewhat  past 
middle  age,  sound  as  a bell,  rubicund  as  morning, 
having  every  big  authority  on  ventilation  at  his 
fingers’-ends  ; a sanitary  philanthropist,  looking 
upon  the  health-regulations  of  the  universe  as,  in 
a certain  measurej  placed  under  his  own  personal 
inspection ; uncompromising,  it  might  almost  be 
said  unscrupulous,  when  the  questions  of  carbonic 
acid  ai;d  sulphureted  hydrogen  are  trenched  upon 
— such  a chieftain  have  the  members  of  the  oppo- 
sition. 

To-night  the  two  leaders  are  destined  to  come 
face  to  face. 

In  the  middle  of  her  rubber,  obstinately  play- 
ing her  aces  second-hand,  scorning  her  partner’s 
calls  for  trumps,  declaring  to  her  adversaries  that 
everything  they  say,  or  do,  or  look,  is  not  whist,” 
the  irascible  old  lady  suddenly  feels  a cold  shiver 
pass  down  her  backbone.  She  starts  to  her  feet, 
draws  aside  a curtain,  and  discovers  that  the  ene- 
my has  outwitted  her.  At  nine  o’clock  p.  m.,  se- 
cure in  the  sense  that  some  sixty  pairs  of  human 


76  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


lungs,  with  a well-piled  fire,  and  a couple  of  dozen 
gas-burners,  are  doing  their  worst  on  the  atmos- 
phere— lulled,  I saj^,  to  rest  in  these  fallacious  be- 
liefs, the  whist-players  have  been  sitting,  with  a 
window  open,  not  six  feet  distant.  Air,  night  aiy\ 
damp,  chills,  rheumatism,  pouring  in  upon  them 
in  volumes  ! 

At  this  precise  juncture  the  philanthropist  en- 
ters by  an  opposite  door — a glass  door  leading 
from  a terrace,  and  which,  in  accordance  alike 
with  his  custom  and  his  principles,  he  leaves  open. 
The  irascible  old  lady  stands  in  a thorough  draught. 
The  ribbons  in  her  cap  bristle.  The  very  gas- 
burners  flicker. 

It  is  a thrilling  situation,  and  one  appreciated 
by  the  audience.  In  an  invalid  foreign  village 
the  general  complexion  of  human  life  is  such  as 
to  make  people  snatch  at  whatever  incident  of 
dramatic  interest  may  present  itself.  The  remain- 
ing whist-players  lay  down  their  cards  and  ex- 
change glances.  The  performer  on  the  piano 
stops  short.  Little  Major  Brett,  as  we  have  noted, 
trots  briskly  across  the  room  to  the  scene  of  ac- 
tion. 

For  a moment  both  belligerents  pause. 

I have  said  that  the  leader  of  the  opposition 
has  an  aspect  florid  as  morning.  His  eyes  are  in- 
genuous ; his  lips  wear  a smile  of  universal  benev- 
olence. At  the  present  season,  November  half 
spent,  he  dresses  as  though  ’twere  the  dog-days. 


MOONLIGHT,  OR  AgPHYNlATlON ‘? 

in  an  alpaca  coat  and  white  waistcoat ; wears  no 
cravat  to  speak  of,  and  turns  back  his  shirt-collar 
with  boyish  airiness  from  his  throat.  His  attire, 
his  face,  a certain  jaunty  freshness  pervading  his 
whole  presence,  would  seem  to  indicate  a per- 
fectly aggressive  condition  of  health  physical  and 
moral.  ♦ 

The  irascible  old  lady  crosses  the  salon  with 
an  angry  run.  She  stands,  confronting  him. 

^‘May  I beg,  sir,  as  I have  been  forced  to  do  a 
dozen  times  before,  that  you  will  have  the  kind- 
ness to  shut  that  terrible  door  when  you  enter  or 
quit  the  salon  ? ” 

The  philanthropist  looks  around  him  blandly. 
Twenty,  thirty,  forty — yes,  there  must  be 
quite  forty  pairs  of  lungs  in  the  room,  each  con- 
suming five  cubic  feet  of  air  per  minute.  Peclet 
says  five,  Reid  ten,  Arnott  twenty.  I myself  in- 
cline to  the  opinion  of  Arnott.  Do  you  not  think, 
as  a matter  of  simple  necessity  for  you  whist-play- 
ers, that  we  may  venture  to  admit  a breath  of  purer 
atmosphere  ? Whist,  madam,  entails  thought.  In 
thinking,  some  molecular  change  goes  on  in  the 
nervous  substance  of  the  brain,  to  the  renewal  of 
which  oxygenated  blood  is  necessary,  and — ” 

Oxygenated  ! ” exclaims  the  old  lady,  upon 
whom  the  word  seems  to  act  as  a direct  irritant. 
‘‘I  think,  sir,  the  less  said  on  the  subject  of  dxy- 
gen  the  better  ! There  is  a window,  a window  in 
this  salon  open  immediately  behind  the  whist-table 


78  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

at  which  I habitually  sit.  And  it  has  been  open 
the  whole  evening.” 

A smile  of  triumph  flits  round  the  philanthro- 
pist’s lips.  The  enemy  sees  it,  and,  being  but  mor- 
tal, loses  her  temper  and  her  self-command. 

We  do  not  accuse  you,”  she  cries,  and  by  this 
time  her  voice  has  grown  loud  enough  to  be  heard 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  salon, 
“We  do  not  accuse  you  of  so  dishonorable  an  ac- 
tion as  setting  that  window  open,  and  drawing  a 
curtain  across  it,  deliberately.  You  were  observed 
to  be  the  first  person  who  entered  the  drawing- 
room after  dinner.  We  may  hope  that  you  ad- 
mitted the  night  air  from  inadvertence,  that  you 
forgot  the  unhappy  invalids  ” (she  gives  a wave  of 
her  hand  around  the  room)  “ to  whom  the  conse- 
quence of  your  action  might  be  fatal.” 

The  philanthropist  laughs  outright.  He  is 
too  thoroughly  engrossed  by  one  set  of  ideas,  too 
honestly  conscious  of  the  greatness  of  his  own 
mission,  to  lose  his  temper  lightly  under  provoca- 
tion. 

“ Poor  invalids  ! If  I did  leave  the  window  un- 
fastened— let  me  think — yes  ; I certainly  opened  it 
to  enjoy  the  glorious  sight  of  the  moonrise  over 
the  mountains — if  I did  admit  a current  of  vital 
air  into  a room  charged  with  such  gases  as  these, 
the  invalids  should  look  upon  me  as  their  bene- 
factor. Why,  my  dear  madam,”  he  goes  on,  with 
the  most  dispassionate  candor  imaginable,  “ what, 


MOONLIGHT,  OR  ASPHYXIATION?  79 

may  I ask  you,  do  you  come  iere,  to  the  south, 
for  ? ” 

Rheumatism,  a good  many  of  us,”  retorts  the 
lady,  waxing  angrier  and  angrier.  Rheumatism 
and  its  allied  complaints,  for  all  of  which  draughts, 
and  damps,  and  night  air,  are  destruction.  You 
hear  me  sir,  destruction  ! ” 

We  come  to  the  south,  my  dear  madam,  for 
health,  for  air  : 

* ’Tis  air,  not  gas,  for  which  we  pant. 

More  air  and  freer  that  we  want.’  ” 

The  irascible  old  lady  turns  on  her  heel,  and 
murmurs,  Bosh  ! ” 

We  come  to  revive  the  free,  blithe,  uncon- 
scious spirit  of  Hellas — ” 

^‘We  come  at  an  immense  expense,  sir,  and 
under  the  advice  of  our  physicians,  to  try  the 
healing  effects  of  warmth.  See  what  Williams’s 
book  says  about  night  air.  Hear  Dr.  Oldham. — 
Is  Dr.  Oldham  in  the  salon  ? ” 

Oldham  is  in  the  smoking-room,  madam,  with 
every  window  open,  and  no  fire.” 

“ Ah  ! Dr.  Oldham  can  commit  suicide  in  any 
way  he  chooses.  It  is  no  affair  of  mine.  If  you 
go  on,  sir,  opening  doors  and  windows  as  you  do 
— I declare  to  Heaven  ! ” cries  the  old  lady,  in  a 
sudden  fine  burst  of  wrath — I declare  to  Heaven 
you  should  be  called  upon  to  pay  the  doctors’  bills 
of  the  house  ! ” 


80  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

The  sanitary  reformer  does  not  lose  his  tem- 
per ; but  a hard,  steely  glitter  comes  into  his  eye. 

Do  you  know,  my  good  lady,  are  you  in  the 
very  least  aware,  how  much  preventable  disease 
occurs  annually  from  vitiated  air  throughout  the 
United  Kingdom  ? ” 

I know  that  I will  prevent  you  from  killing 
us  all  if  I can,  sir  ! Windows  are  found  open  in 
this  hotel  at  every  hour  of  the  day  and  night — 
yes,  night ! A better  watch  is  kept  than  you, 
perhaps,  think  for.  I know  that  two  nights  ago  a 
window  was  opened,  on  the  floor  where  I slept,  at 
midnight.  But  I have  made  it  right  with  the 
proprietor,  I have  spoken  to  Herr  Schmidt,”  an- 
nounces the  stanch  old  lady,  with  a glance  round 
the  salon,,  and  he  has  promised  that  the  interests 
of  the  many  shall  not  be  sacrificed  to  the  mad 
caprice  of  one.” 

I have  stated  that  the  philanthropist  is  not 
wont  to  lose  his  temper.  At  this  point  in  the  dis- 
cussion it  must,  however,  be  admitted  that  la 
moutarde  lui  monte  au  nez.” 

‘‘  Herr  Schmidt ! ” he  echoes,  derisively.  ‘‘  Of 
course,  in  him  you  will  have  an  ally.  We  are  all 
familiar  with  the  German  ideas  of  ventilation  and 
cleanliness.” 

‘^Cleanliness,  sir?” 

“ Cleanliness,  madam.  Fresh,  pure,  clean  air 
— the  one  vital  condition  of  our  existence,  by  day 
or  by  night,  in  dry  weather  or  in  wet.” 


MOONLIGHT,  OR  ASPHYXIATION? 


81 


In  wet  weather  ! Monstrous  ! ” 

Murderous,  madam  ; your  Black-Hole  system 
is  murderous.” 

“ Hlieumatism  ! Bronchitis  ! ” 

“ Vitiated  blood.  Stunted  nervous  system.” 
Obstinacy  ! ” 

Infatuation ! ” 

By  this  time  both  combatants  are  flushed  in 
the  face,  and  a dead  silence  reigns  throughout  the 
salon.  The  discussion  has  evidently  reached  a 
point  at  which  diplomacy  totters  on  its  last  legs, 
and  force  stands  ready  and  willing  to  take  diplo- 
macy’s place. 

Sir,”  at  length  demands  the  lady,  solemnly, 
‘‘  I ask  of  you,  for  the  last  time,  will  you  have  the 
goodness  to  shut  the  door  by  which  you  have  just 
entered  this  salon  ? ” 

‘^I  Aviil  challenge  the  common-sense  of  the 
whole  room  first,”  says  the  gentleman,  stoutly. 

I will  not  believe  that  an  assemblage  of  edu- 
cated people  in  the  nineteenth  century  can  elect 
to  breathe  an  atmosphere  compared  with  which 
the  prisons  of  Calcutta  would  be  refreshing.” 

He  looks  appealingly  round  the  room.  People 
take  up  newspapers,  or  are  suddenly  interested  in 
the  state  of  the  fire,  or  of  the  gas.  No  one  catches 
his  eye  ; no  one  responds.  Such  is  human  nature 
— hotel  human  nature,  at  all  events.  And  a pri- 
vate canvass,  a couple  of  hours  ago,  would  have 
assured  more  than  half  the  entire  number  of  votes 
6 


82  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


in  favor  of  ventilation.  But  civilians,  like  some 
soldiers,  will  fight  well  enough  behind  intrench- 
ments,  yet  shrink  from  meeting  the  enemy  in  the 
open  field. 

“ If  any  persons  wish  a door  or  window  left 
open,  will  they  hold  up  their  hands  ? ” 

Not  a hand  is  uplifted,  save  that  of  little  Major 
Brett ; and  his  only  reaches  a sufficient  elevation 
to  cover  his  lips. 

You  see,  I hope  ? ” cries  the  old  lady,  her  face 
lit  up  by  the  triumph  of  hardly-gained  victory. 

I do  see,”  says  the  gentleman,  with  emphasis 
— I see,  but  I cannot  breathe  ! I shall  therefore 
return  to  the  terrace,  counteract  the  poisons  I 
have  been  inhaling  with  pure  oxygen,  and  drink 
my  cup  of  coffee  al  fresco, — Ladies  and  gentle- 
men, you  have,  all  of  you,  my  best  wishes  as  to  ^ 
your  prospects — of  asphyxiation  ! ” 

And,  making  a low  and  sweeping  salutation, 
the  philanthropist  quits  the  room  ; shutting  the 
door  with  such  marked  good-will  as  to  set  every 
gas-burner,  every  pane  of  glass  in  the  windows, 
shivering. 

“Now  is  the  time  to  show  forth  the  faith  that 
is  in  us,”  observes  Laurence  Biron  to  Jet.  “ Prin- 
ciples, in  the  abstract,  I look  upon  as  a mistake  ; 
still,  there  are  occasions  when  it  is  polite  to  as- 
sume them  if  we  have  them  not.  Which  alterna- 
tive do  you  choose.  Miss  Conyngham  ? Coffee  in 
the  moonlight,  or  asphyxiation  ? ” 


OKGAN-MUSIC  AND  CHAMPAGNE.  83 

I am  most  decidedly  not  for  asphyxiation,” 
answers  Jet,  promptly. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ORGAN-MUSIC  AND  CHAMPAGNE. 

Five  acres  of  the  tropics  transplanted  into  a 
corner  of  Provence.  Terrace  above  terrace  odor- 
ous with  frangi  and  the  night-flowering  cereus  ; 
brilliant,  in  mid-November,  with  bushes  of  crim- 
son hibiscus,  with  trailing  purple  begonia,  with 
roses,  myrtles,  and  cassia,  in  full  bloom.  Parti- 
tion-hedges of  aloes  and  cactus,  growing  in  such 
wild  luxuriance  as  they  never  reach  in  any  Eng- 
lish hot-house.  The  gleam  of  statues — the  splash 
of  fountains.  High  above  all  a line  of  stately 
palms  ; the  outline  of  their  delicate  feather-fronds 
cutting  sharp,  as  though  carved  by  fairy  hands  in 
metal,  against  the  intense  whiteness  of  the  sky. 

Such  is  the  garden  of  the  Hotel  Paradis,  and 
on  one  of  its  upper  paths  the  Reverend  Laurence 
Biron  and  J et  Conyngham  pace  slowly  to  and  fro 
in  the  brilliant  moonlight. 

Far  away  on  the  horizon  the  shadowy  forms  of 
the  Golden  Islands  cleave  the  Mediterranean’s  pur- 
ple. Scattered  over  the  intervening  plains,  the 
occasional  light  from  some  lone  farm  or  hamlet 
may  be  seen  to  gleam  from  out  a dusky  setting  of 


§4  JET;  Her  Eace  or  her  roRTtJKE? 

cypress  and  of  olive.  In  the  foreground  the  little 
town  of  Esterel  nestles  beneath  its  castle-crowned 
steeps.  The  night  is  still,  yet  buoyant ; cool, 
sparkling,  dry  ; such  atmospheric  perfection  as 
you  may  experience  in  England  twice,  perhaps,  if 
you  are  fortunate,  during  a twelvemonth,  or  sel- 
domer. 

^^Air  ^like  organ-music  and  champagne,’  as 
some  one  has  said,”  remarks  J et,  pausing  in  her 
walk,  and  turning  her  face  westward  toward  the 
serrated  ridges  of  the  Montagnes  des  Maures,  the 
direction  whence  such  soft  breeze  as  there  is  is 
faintly  blowing.  ^^It  seems  to  me  I never  really 
breathed  until  we  came  to  the  south.  Devonshire 
mists  and. vapors  may  do  well  enough  for  people 
to  the  manner  born.  I am  half  American.  I like 
to  get  through  everything,  my  breathing  included, 
at  high  pressure,  and  Dulford,  very  decidedly,  did 
not  suit  me.” 

Half  American  ! ” repeats  Laurence  Biron, 
quickly. 

Ten  days  have  elapsed  since  the  first  melodra- 
matic meeting  of  Jet  and  her  ‘Hiero  ” in  the  dark 
lanes  of  Avignon  ; and  during  these  ten  days  Mr. 
Biron’s  acquaintance  with  the  father  of  forty  thou- 
sand pounds  has  fast  progressed  toward  intimacy. 
He  became  the  Conynghams’  traveling-companion 
from  Avignon  onward,  making  himself  useful  to 
the  invalid  in  a thousand  unostentatious  ways  up- 
on the  journey  ; since  their  arrival  at  Esterel  has 


ORGAN-MUSIC  AND  CHAMPAGNE. 


85 


been  the  constantly-devoted  attendant  (after  a 
somewhat  different  fashion)  both  of  Mr.  Conyng- 
hain  and  of  Jet.  And  yet,  until  this  moment,  not 
an  opening  to  the  subject  ever  present  to  his 
thoughts — the  all-important  subject  of  the  girl’s 
dead  mother  and  her  fortune — has  presented  itself. 

^^Half  American,  Miss  Conyngham?  I had 
understood  that  your  mother — ” 

My  mother  was  a Boston  woman,”  answers 
Jet,  wholly  unconscious  of  his  question’s  drift. 
“ She  died  before  I was  a year  old.  I never  spoke 
to  an  American  in  my  life  until  three  weeks  ago. 
Papa  deposited  me  in  Aunt  Gwendoline’s  keeping 
when  I was  a baby,  and  my  experiences  have  been 
Dulford,  Dulford,  Dulford,  from  the  first  chapter 
to  the  last.  And  yet,  during  the  short  time  we 
spent  in  Paris,  I was  asked  by  a dozen  people,  at 
least,  if  I did  not  hail  from  the  States.  Some- 
thing in  my  face  or  manner,  I suppose.” 

Something  in  her  face  or  manner ! Why,  of 
course.  A child  might  have  known  that  the  legend 
of  the  West  Indian  pedigree  was  false.  Because 
a beautiful  girl  chance  to  be  heiress  to  forty  thou- 
sand pounds,  the  world,  envious,  small-minded, 
must  credit  her  at  once  with  African  progenitors  ; 
sees  traces  of  black  blood  disfiguring  the  sweet 
carnation  of  her  cheeks,  a suspicion  of  wool  amid 
her  waves  of  golden  hair  ! 

The  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  feels  as  though 
a weight  were  lifted  from  him. 


86 


JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


He  knows,  or  ought  to  know,  how  far  he  would 
let  a dusky  ancestry  stand  between  himself  and 
money.  He  knows,  or  ought  to  know,  how  far  he 
would  let  anything  stand  between  himself  and 
money.  But  Biron  is  a man  who  poses  ” for  his 
own  benefit,  as  he  does  for  that  of  the  spectators  ; 
he  is  artificial,  to  the  last  fibre  of  his  nature. 
Principles  he  avowedly  looks  upon  as  a mistake. 
In  the  inmost  recesses  of  his  conscience  he  has  still 
a code  of  what  may  be  called  aesthetic  morality  ” 
for  his  immediate  personal  use.  And  the  beauty 
of  the  girl  with  whom  he  has  begun  this  solemnest 
piece  of  acting  of  his  life,  her  beauty,  her  youth, 
the  ineffable  wild  freshness  which  is  J et  Conyng- 
ham’s  salient  and  distinguishing  charm,  have  ab- 
solutely touched  such  capacity  for  better  feeling 
as  still  exists  in  the  man’s  jaded  breast. 

It  is,  I repeat,  a relief  to  him  to  feel  that  taint 
of  black  descent  gone  ; to  know  that,  while  he 
makes  a mercenary  marriage  hiihself,  his  friends 
(if  he  possess  any)  may  say  that  a young  and 
lovely  Englishwoman — not  a gold-washed  octo- 
roon— ^has  married  him  for  love.  For  that  his 
suit  with  Jet  will  ultimately  prosper,  not  so  much 
Laurence  Biron’s  vanity  as  his  really  excellent 
knowledge  of  woman’s  character  already  assures 
him. 

I gave  you  credit  for  being  only  half  English 
the  first  hour  I saw  you,  Miss  Conyngham.”  This 
is  strictly  true.  Had  he  not,  in  that  same  hour, 


ORGAN-MUSIC  AND  CHAMPAGNE. 


87 


received  miladi’s  ” letter  of  advice  ? Some- 
thing alien  to  Mrs.  Grundy  in  your  walk,  your 
speech,  something — how  can  one  describe  the  in- 
describable ? — about  your  vdiole  look  and  man- 
ner forbade  the  supposition  of  your  being  a gen- 
uine Briton.” 

Is  that  a compliment  ? ” she  asks  A some- 
what doubtful  one  I should  say,  judging  from 
what  one  reads  in  books.” 

The  writers  of  books  evolve  their  facts  out 
of  their  book-shelves  ! Any  man  who  uses  his 
eyes,  not  a gazetteer,  must  know  that  beauty  is 
cosmopolitan  ; that  the  most  subtile  charms  of  all 
come,  indeed,  of  mixed  parentage.  I have  lived 
among  the  States  people.”  Among  what  nation 
of  the  earth  have  the  cruel  ups  a^nd  downs  of  for- 
tune not  forced  Laurence  Biron  to  live ? “I 
know  American  Avomen  as  they  are,  in  their  own 
country,  their  own  homes.” 

And  your  verdict  is — ” 

My  verdict  is — that  a pretty  woman  is  a 
pretty  Avoman  ahvays,  no  matter  whether  her  place 
of  nativity  be  Paris,  London,  or  New  York.  Per- 
haps,” adds  Biron-  if  I had  to  assign  the  most 
fitting  background  for  each,  I would  put  the  Pa- 
risian in  a ballroom,  the  Englishwoman  at  an  af- 
ternoon garden-party — ” 

And  the  American  ? ” 

“ By  my  own  fireside,  as  the  bright  and  sun- 
shiny companion  of  my  life.” 


88  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

“Ah!”  cries  Jet,  at  hazard,  “I  understands 
Mr.  Laurence  Biron  left  his  heart  in  the  States.” 

“ I think  not,”  is  his  answer.  “ My  heart,  for- 
tunately, or  unfortunately,  for  myself,  is  in  Es- 
terel  at  this  moment.” 

The  girl  has  been  looking  at  her  companion, 
until  now,  with  her  accustomed  keen,  unabashed 
gaze.  At  his  words  her  eyes  droop  ; she  turns 
her  face  aside  from  him,  and  blushes  furiously. 
What  cause  is  there  for  shame?  What  should 
send  the  blood  in  this  ridiculous  fashion  to  her 
cheeks?  Jet  Conyngham  is  ignorant  of  love’s 
very  alphabet — too  ignorant  to  spell  out  the  mean- 
ing of  her  own  emotions,  or  suspect  how  far  the 
game  that  we  play  “ with  iron  dice  ” has,  in  very 
truth,  progressed. 

“ Your  heart  is  in  Esterel ! ” she  repeats,  for- 
cing herself  to  look  round  again,  forcing  her  voice 
to  maintain  its  tone  of  banter.  “ W ell,  the  ad- 
mission sets  at  rest  a certain  wild  conjecture  that 
crossed  my  brain  when  we  were  buying  the  peas- 
ant head-dress  in  Avignon  ! I took  it  into  my 
head,  just  as  I was  looking  ‘beautiful  by  proxy,’ 
that  your  Italian  correspondent,  the  lady  of  no 
particular  age,  might  be — Mr.  Biron,”  breaking 
off  into  one  of  the  abrupt,  neck-or-nothing  leaps 
by  which  Jet  is  accustom.ed  to  dispense  with  the 
troublesome  process  of  reasoning,  “ I am  suddenly 
reminded  of  another  subject,  of  something  which 
I had  unaccountably  forgotten  till  this  moment.  I 


ORGAN-MUSIC  AND  CHAMPAGNE. 


89 


heard  all  about  you,  sir,  from  an  unbiased  source, 
on  the  very  evening  that  papa  and  I left  England.” 

“All  about  me  ? ” repeats  Biron,  uneasily.  Jet 
Conyngham  has  never  noticed  (being,  in  truth,  no 
acute  reader  of  character)  how  habitually  ill  at 
ease  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  is — how  rest- 
less, despite  an  acquired  cool  manner,  to  which 
his  handsome  person  lends  grace — with  life  and 
with  himself.  “I  hope  the  ^all’  was  not  very 
atrociously  bad.  Miss  Conyngham  ? ” 

“ I hope  not,  I am  sure,  for  your  sake.” 

During  the  space  of  a second  or  two  he  is  si- 
lent, palpably  thrown  off  his  guard  ; then  : “ Tell 
me  the  name  of  your  informant,”  he  remarks, 
quietly.  “ Quelle  est  la  femme  ? Knowing  the 
source  of  the  scandal,  I shall  be  pretty  well  able 
to  form  a guess  as  to  its  blackness.” 

“ And  suppose  my  informant  happened  not  to 
be  a woman  ? ” 

“ In  that  case,  there  would  most  likely  be  no 
scandal  at  all.” 

“ I understand  ; you  think  that  men  are  supe- 
rior to  small  malice  or  uncharitableness  ? ” 

“ I think  men,  as  a rule,  are  backward  in  talk- 
ing about  each  other’s  affairs,”  he  answers,  with 
rather  forced  carelessness.  “ As  a matter  of  per- 
sonal taste,  I know  that  I would,  at  any  time, 
rather  have  a man  for  my  enemy  than  a woman  ; 
unless,  perhaps,  it  were  to  be  an  enemy  on  a very 
grand  and  epic  scale. 


90  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


Grand  and  epic  ! If  you  could  have  seen  us 
— me,  I mean,  and  papa,  and — and  the  person  who 
spoke  of  you  ! We  were  drinking  tea  at  Folke- 
stone, an  hour  or  two  before  going  on  board,  and 
some  one,  papa  it  must  have  been,  mentioned  Lady 
Austen’s  name,  and  then  out  it  all  came.” 

Lady  Austen’s  name  ! ” 

Laurence  Biron  moves  a step  away  from  the 
girl’s  side  : he  leans,  with  folded  arms,  across  the 
balustrade  of  the  terrace,  and  gazes,  in  a sudden 
fit  of  mental  abstraction,  upon  the  scene  before 
him. 

There  lie  the  Golden  Islands — the  Golden  Isl- 
ands, to  whose  shores  he  and  Lady  Austen  have 
made  so  many  tete-d-tete  boating-excursions  in  the 
days  of  old.  There  stand  the  olive-shrouded  hills, 
through  whose  every  path  and  glade  he  once  was 
wont  to  ride — Lady  Austen  his  companion.  A 
country  cart  comes  noisily  rattling  along  the  white 
high-road  from  Marseilles.  The  jangle  of  the 
mules’  bells  seems  to  wreath  itself  into  a kind  of 
fantastic  marriage-peal — the  marriage-peal,  so  some 
mocking  voice  whispers  busily  in  his  ear,  that  shall 
some  fine  morning  be  rung  for  the  Reverend  Lau- 
rence Biron  and  miladi ! 

She  must  be  a character  worth  meeting  and 
studying,  I should  guess.”  Jet’s  voice  recalls  him 
from  the  world  of  embarrassing  retrospect  and 
equally  embarrassing  foreboding  into  which  his 
thoughts  have  strayed.  ^^But  near  relatives  see 


OUGAN-MUSIC  AND  CHAMPAGNE. 


91 


US,  it  may  be,  from  a focus  that  distorts  truth. 
My  entire  knowledge  of  Lady  Austen,  and  of  her 
eccentricities,  has  come  to  me  through  her  son.” 

Mr.  Mark  Austen,  the  only  son  of  a widow,” 
observes  Biron,  recovering,  as  if  by  magic,  his 
usual  airy  assumption  of  indifference.  ‘‘I  can 
better  understand  now  how  much  was  comprised 
in  the  word  ^all ! ’ Young  Mark  v/ould  not  find 
anything  favorable  to  say  of  me — doubtful,  poor 
boy,  if  young  Mark  would  find  anything  favorable 
to  say  of  any  one.  The  Austens,  from  generation 
to  generation,  enjoy  the  reputation.  Miss  Conyng- 
ham,  of  being  the  very  worst-tempered  people  on 
the  habitable  globe.” 

You  have  found  them  so?”  she  asks,  looking 
full  and  somewhat  searchingly  in  Laurence  Biron’s 
face. 

I have — ^to  my  cost.  Poor  Sir  George,  dur- 
ing his  lucid  intervals,  was  one  of  the  most  excel- 
lent old  gentlemen  breathing.  Unhappily,  what 
with  gout,  port  wine,  and  the  family  predisposi- 
tion combined,  the  lucid  intervals  were  rare.  Un- 
happily, also,  he  took  a fancy  to  myself.” 

You  are  frank  in  your  ingratitude.” 

‘‘I  am  frank  in  most  things,”  says  Biron — 
probably  the  least  frank  man  extant.  When  you 
know  me  better — if  that  day  comes — you  will 
acknowledge  that  a certain  knack  of  blurting  out 
rough  truths  is  one  of  the  agreeable  peculiarities 
of  my  character.” 


92  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


I have  not  discovered  any  over-roughqess  in 
you  yet,  sir.” 

‘‘You  have  known  me  under  circumstances  ill 
qualified  to  call  roughness  forth.  ‘ The  olive  must 
be  well  crushed,’  says  the  proverb,  ‘ before  it  gives 
out  its  best  oil.’  You  must  see  me  tried  in  the 
furnace  of  adversity  before  you  discover  all  my 
virtues.” 

“Am  I to  understand  that  Sir  George  and 
Lady  Austen  were  your  furnace  of  adversity  ? ” 

She  feels  feverishly,  unwarrantably  curious  on 
this  theme,  eager  to  learn  what  his  relations  have 
been,  are,  and  are  to  be,  with  Mark’s  mother. 

“Poor  old  Sir  George  ! He  certainly  was 
something  of  a blister  to  me  during  a good  many 
years.” 

Mr.  Biron  might  not  unjustly  add  “ something 
of  a banker,”  did  he  tax  his  memory  severely. 

“ But  I had  the  consolation  of  feeling  myself, 
vicariously,  of  service — a kind  of  lightning-con- 
ductor, turning  aside  the  vials  of  his  wrath  from 
others.  For  a man  so  absolutely  without  useful 
objects  in  life,  a man  so  thoroughly  an  incum- 
brance upon  the  face  of  the  earth  as  I am,  that 
was  something.” 

“ I see.  Lady  Austen  is — cannot  be — ” (an  ex- 
cess of  shyness  most  unwonted  causes  Jet  Con- 
yngham’s  lips  to  falter) — “ cannot  be  a very  young 
woman  by  this  time,  considering  that  she  is  Mark’s 
mother  ? ” 


ORGA^^-MtSIC  and  champagne.  03 

‘^Lady  Austen  is  fifty-one.” 

The  spirit  of  sincerity  has,  it  is  evident,  taken 
possession  of  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  to- 
night : subtile  inspiration,  born  of  self-interest, 
warning  him,  probably,  that  to  succeed  with  Jet 
Conyngham  it  were  well  to  approach  the  border- 
land of  truth  as  closely  as  the  tortuous  nature  of 
the  paths  wherein  he  treads  will  permit. 

^‘Fifty-one!”  Unconsciously  to  herself,  the 
girl’s  breast  heaves  a little  sigh  of  relief.  “ Al- 
most papa’s  age.  Quite  an  old,  old  lady.  Then 
it  was  not  for  Lady  Austen,  of  course,  that  you 
bought  the  peasant  head-dress  that  evening  in 
Avignon  ? ” 

Ah — that  evening  in  Avignon  ! How  little 
I thought,”  says  Mr.  Biron,  dexterously  turning 
Jet’s  thoughts  into  a safer  channel — ‘‘how  little  I 
thought,  when  I was  following  you  and  the  sac- 
ristan away  from  the  church,  that  ten  short  days 
would  see  us  as  good  friends  as  we  have  become  ! 
A propos  of  the  sacristan,  you  threw  out  some 
aspersions  against  ‘ clerical  people,’  I recollect, 
that  stabbed  me  deeply  as  we  walked  along  in 
the  dark.” 

“ I should  not  have  thought  any  aspersions  in 
that  direction  need  touch  you  very  nearly,  Mr. 
Biron.” 

“ Should  you  not — and  why  ? ” 

“ Because  you  are — please  do  not  be  olf ended, 
I mean  to  be  civil — so  exceedingly  little  clerical ! ” 


94  *^ET:  her  face  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


‘‘Miss  Conyngham,  I am  mortally  offended. 
It  is  the  cruelest  thing  that  has  ever  yet  been  said 
to  me.  Will  you  make  amends  by  taking  one 
more  turn  before  we  go  back  to  gaslight  and  as- 
phyxiation ? There  is  a legend  that  Corsica  may 
be  seen  from  the  upmost  terrace  of  the  garden 
under  the  palms.” 

“ If  I were  sure  papa  would  not  want  me — ” 

“ Mr.  Conyngham  is  in  the  safe  keeping  of 
Marie  Stuart — Marie  Stuart  grown  saintly  ! No 
fear,  in  an  hotel  full  of  ladies,  that  your  father 
will  experience  neglect.  During  all  the  winters 
that  I remember  seeing  him  in  the  south,  Mr.  Con- 
yngham has  invariably  been  submitting  to  the 
ministrations  of  some  excellent  woman,  concerned 
alike  about  his  body  and  his  soul.  Besides,”  adds 
Mr.  Biron,  “ it  is  early  still.  See,  there  is  an  al- 
paca coat  we  know  still  fluttering  in  the  breeze 
upon  the  dining-room  terrace.  We  may  have  yet 
another  half-hour  of  freedom,  if  you  choose.” 

What  an  exquisite  half-hour  it  is  ! The  air  in 
the  upper  garden  is  even  crisper,  more  exhilarat- 
ing than  below,  the  view  wider.  One,  at  least, 
of  the  two  human  actors  in  the  scene  feels  nearer 
to  the  stars  and  heaven  ! 

When,  at  length,  the  ringing  of  bells,  the  move- 
ment of  many  lights,  betoken  that  the  Paradis  is 
about  to  settle  for  the  night.  Jet  Conyngham  turns, 
and  gives  a last,  lingering  look  at  the  placid  beauty 


wr  AN  AtJLD  LOYEJ 


95 


of  the  palm-shaded  walk  they  are  quitting.  Half 
absently  she  plucks  a flower  or  two  from  an  in- 
tensely sweet,  white-blossomed  plant  beside  which 
she  stands. 

“ The  ixora,”  remarks  Laurence  Biron,  stoop- 
ing to  pick  up  the  scattered  petals  that  her  hand 
has  touched.  “ One  of  my  favorite  flowers.  The 
ixora  lives  through  a single  night  of  autumn  moon- 
light, Miss  Conyngham,  then  dies  under  next  morn- 
ing’s sun.  You  have  not  time  to  get  tired  of  it.” 

And,  at  his  words,  something  of  a cold  chill 
falls  on  Jet’s  spirit. 

Does  the  ixora,  with  its  dozen  hours  of  life  and 
fragrance,  prefigure  the  duration  of  her  own  too 
keen  happiness  ? 


CHAPTER  IX. 

«OFF  Wl’  AN  AULD  LOVE.” 

Noonday  breakfast — a meal  at  which  the  fluc- 
tuating morale  of  the  Grand  Hotel  Paradis  may 
be  fairly  said  to  reach  low- water  mark  ! 

Dinner,  by  comparison,  rises  almost  to  the  level 
of  conviviality.  At  dinner  a menu  of  a dozen 
dishes  gives  at  least  the  Barmacidal  impression  of 
a choice  of  food — there  is  gas,  there  is  glitter.  By 
dinner-time,  too,  the  invalids,  or  quasi-invalids, 
have  picked  up  something  of  an  appetite  during 


96  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  IIER  FORTUNE? 

their  afternoon’s  wandering  upon  the  castle-heights 
and  among  the  fir-forests. 

At  breakfast — or,  as  the  dozen  German  waiters, 
with  grim  irony,  call  it,  ^^der  englische  Lonch” — 
you  see  the  nakedness  of  the  land,  the  quality  of 
Proven9al  provisions,  undisguised.  Undisguised, 
do  I say?  You  see  the  remains  of  yesterday’s 
dinner  disguised  horribly  under  whatever  mixture 
of  sweet  or  sour  sauce  it  may  enter  the  Teutonic 
heart  of  the  chef  to  devise  ; with  a dish  of  loup,” 
bass,”  or  other  tasteless  fish,  for  the  like  of  which 
the  Mediterranean  seaboard  has  won  evil  celebrity 
in  addition. 

Now  is  the  hour  for  complaints,  deep-toned 
and  open  ; for  regrets  over  good  beef  and  mutton 
left  behind  in  England  ; for  proposed  round-rob- 
ins to  the  ever-promising,  never-fulfilling  Schmidt 
and  secretary.  Now  are  small  personal  griefs  and 
squabbles  merged  in  broader  interests,  in  common 
righteous  vituperation  of  the  chiefs  of  the  com- 
missariat. 

The  irascible  old  lady  feels  that  her  enemy  of 
the  night  before  is  a man  and  a brother  as  she  lis- 
tens to  him  protesting,  in  French,  Italian,  Ger- 
man, against  the  enormity  of  being  served  with 
^^oup”  on  four  consecutive  days  in  one  week. 
The  half-pretty  Scottish  widow  (Marie  Stuart 
grown  saintly)  almost  gives  a smile  of  encourage- 
ment to  Miss  Wylie  when  she  hears  that  sprightly 
ingenue  contesting  the  freshness  of  the  cutlets 


^'OFF  Wr  AN  AULD  LOVE.”  97 

with  the  inflexible  Prussian  head-waiter.  Poor 
Miss  Wylie  ! whose  advances  on  the  score  of  curls, 
shoulders,  and  unprotectedness,  the  widow  has, 
ever,  stoutly  refused  to  countenance  ! Little  Ma- 
jor Brett  wellnigh  forgets  to  be  malicious  in  his 
indignation  over  tough  mutton,  Berlin  sauces, 
Toulon  eggs,  untraceable  flsh,  and  all  the  other 
gastronomic  curiosities  with  which  the  Riviera 
breakfast-tables  are  wont  to  be  set  forth. 

Wellnigh — it  is  right  to  interpose  the  adverb  ! 
Not  even  the  vital  interests  of  the  table,  not  even 
the  threatening  ghost  of  indigestion  itself,  can 
wholly  turn  aside  the  major’s  mind  from  th4)ughts 
of  warfare,  or  blunt  his  honest  joy  in  being  able 
to  give  a safe  and  telling  home-thrust  to  any  such 
of  his  fellow-creatures  as  he  may  happen  to  dis- 
like. 

He  dislikes  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  heart- 
ily. (With  the  exception  of  the  fev/  people  who, 
to  their  cost,  love  him  over-much,  it  is  surprising 
what  a wide  unpopularity  Mr.  Biron  can  boast.) 
And  on  the  occasion  of  which  I write,  the  morn- 
ing succeeding  Jet’s  moonlit  walk  under  the  palms, 
a weapon,  irresistibly  well  sharpened,  poisoned  to 
a nicety,  comes  ready  to  the  old  Mohawk’s  hand. 

Der  englische  Lonch  is  at  twelve.  Just  before 
the  conclusion  of  the  meal — a dessert  of  indige- 
nous grapes,  dates,  and  figs,  in  full  circulation — 
enters  the  factor  with  the  noonday  Italian  letters, 
one  of  which  he  deposits,  under  the  guidance,  and 
7 


98  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


with  the  interpretation,  of  a polyglot  waiter,  be* 
side  the  major’s  plate. 

A billet-doux,  depend  upon  it.  Dr.  Oldham,” 
murmurs  Miss  Wylie,  turning  coquettishly  away 
from  Major  Brett  to  address  a dejected-looking 
Englishman  in  spectacles  on  her  other  hand — a 
professed  misogynist,  poor  fellow  ! living  under 
the  same  roof  with  close  upon  a hundred  ladies, 
and  haying  Miss  Wylie  for  his  immediate  neigh- 
bor at  breakfast,  lunch,  and  dinner.  don’t 
think  I ever  saw  him  look  so  pleased  before.  The 
naughty,  naughty  major.” 

The  naughty,  naughty  major,  having  carefully 
read  his  letter  through  twice,  goes  on  with  the 
preparation  of  his  dessert — washing  each  little, 
brown  bunch  of  grapes  in  a tumbler  of  water, 
washing  his  dates,  washing  his  figs.  A man,  evi- 
dently, accustomed  to  southern  countries,  and  pro- 
vided with  resources  against  their  more  crying 
evils. 

When  these  arrangements  are  completed,  he 
leans  forward  and  addresses  Laurence  Biron,  who 
is  sitting  a couple  of  places  higher  than  himself, 
and  immediately  opposite  Mr.  Conyngham  and  Jet. 

^‘Florence  terribly  dull  still,  I hear,  Biron,” 
holding  his  letter  up  playfully  between  the  sec- 
ond and  third  fingers  of  his  left  hand.  Only 
forty  people  at  the  best-filled  table  d'^hote  in  the 
city.” 

‘^Ah?”  responds  Biron^  with  frigid  indilfer- 


«OFF  WI’  AN  AULD  LOVEJ 


99 


ence,  and  moving  his  head  about  a couple  of  inch- 
es in  the  direction  of  his  informant. 

But  Florence  never  really  begins  to  fill  until 
the  end  of  December,  does  it  ? ” 

This  time  Mr.  Biron  would  seem  to  hold  the 
question,  or  the  questioner,  or  both,  unworthy  the 
exertion  of  a monosyllable. 

A filmy  fire  twinkles  in  the  corner  of  the  old 
major’s  eye.  He  passes  his  fingers,  with  ominous 
deliberation,  through  the  scanty  wavelets  of  his 
blond  peruke. 

‘‘And  so  my  correspondent  (a  mutual  friend, 
by-the-way)  tells  me  she  is  about  to  start  for  Este- 
rel  ‘pour  se  distraire.’  Her  friends  may  expect  to 
see  her  ‘ d’un  jour  a I’autre.’  I can  never  help  ad- 
miring the  impartial  admixture  of  foreign  lan- 
guages— ha  ! ha  ! ha  ! one  might  almost  call  them 
of  unknown  tongues — in  Lady  Austen’s  letters.” 

At  the  name  Jet  Conyngham  looks  up  quickly. 
She  looks  in  time  to  note  a change  of  color,  slight, 
but  to  her,  at  least,  distinct,  on  Laurence  Biron’s 
face. 

“ Lady  Austen  is  a capital  correspondent,”  he 
remarks,  without  a moment’s  hesitation.  “She 
writes  as  she  speaks  ; brings  herself  and  the  sub- 
ject she  tells  you  about  directly  before  your  eyes. 
The  perfection  of  letter- writing,  Mr.  Conyngham,” 
turning  his  shoulder  with  cool  unconcern  upon  his 
interlocutor. — “You  feel  strong  enough,  I hope,  to 
join  the  expedition  to  Tamaris  this  afternoon  ? ” 


100  JST:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FOrIIJKE? 


Major  Brett  cats  liis  well-vyaslicd  grapes  in  si- 
lence ; not  loving  Laurence  Biron  tlie  better,  you 
may  rest  assured,  revolving  in  bis  mind  some  fu- 
ture stab  under  which  the  fellow,  with  all  his 
insolence,  shall  be  forced  to  writhe,  but  loath  to 
try  any  further  measurements  of  words  with  him 
for  the  present. 

Let  no  one  dispute  the  importance  of  the  part 
played  by  a handsome  face  in  the  mixed  drama  of- 
our  destinies  : this  “ comedy  to  those  who  think  ; 
this  tragedy  to  those  who  feel.” 

How  often,  during  the  eight-and-thirty  years 
that  Laurence  Biron  has  strutted  his  little  hour 
upon  life’s  stage,  has  that  fine  person  of  his  stood 
him  in  good  stead  ; with  congregations,-  bishops,, 
duns,  rivals,  sweethearts — natural  enemies,  of  all 
sorts  and  conditions  ! Through  how  many  a dire 
strait  has  he  continued  to  pull  Avhere  a sinner  v/ith 
a pug-nose  or  a slanting  forehead  must  infallibly 
liave  gone  to  the  wall ! The  look,  the  gesture, 
tiiat  from  a man  of  mean  presence  would  be  an 
impcrtinerc^,  from  Biron  are  superb.  Whatever 
butietings  he  has  got  of  fate — and  they  have  been 
many — he  has  ever  taken  them,  as  he  takes  the 
present  waspish  sting  of  the  little  major,  with  a 
certain  nobleness — an  outside  dignity,  by  which 
(even  although  you  acknowledged  it  to  be  veneer) 
you  could  scarcely  fail  to  be  impressed. 

And  yet  the  sting  is  a sharp  one.  The  bare 
possibility  of  Lady  Austen  receiving  letters  from 


‘'OFF  WI’  AN  AULD  LOVE. 


101 


the  Hotel  Paradis  is  fraught  with  danger  to  his 
hopes.  Let  miladi  ” hear  how  matters  stand  be- 
tween himself  and  Jet  Conyngham,  let  her  receive 
but  a hint  of  his  serious  infidelity,  and  Biron  well 
knows  that  she  would  be  capable  of  any  stroke  of 
vengeance,  callous  to  any  prospect  of  exposure. 

Had  he  earlier  suspected  this  untoward  corre^ 
spondence,  he  could  have  armed  himself  against 
its  results.  Major  Brett  might  possibly  have  been 
silenced — at  least  for  another  week  ; at  least  until 
he,  Biron,  could  openly  declare  himself  Jet  Con- 
yngham’s  suitor. 

But  it  is  evident  that  matters  have  gone  too 
far  for  compromise. 

Miladi  about  to  start  for  Esterel — it  may  be  on 
the  road  thither  already — pour  se  distraire!  A 
woman  like  Lady  Austen  coming  from  the  gayest 
city  in  Italy  to  one  of  the  quietest  invalid  villages 
in  France  for  amusement ! 

Why  has  he  not  better  utilized  his  time? 
Why,  last  night  on  the  terrace,  did  he  not  risk  his 
all  (literally,  he  feels  it  to  be  his  all — the  one,  last, 
supreme  good-fortune  likely  to  come  near  his 
ruined  life),  and  speak? 

“Don’t  you  think  it  would  do  papa  a world 
of  good  to  join  the  donkey-party?”  Jet’s  fresh 
young  voice  breaks  in  upon  his  reverie.  “ I have 
been  trying  to  persuade  him  to  go  all  the  morn- 
ing— first,  for  his  own  good,  of  course  ; next,  as  a 
chaperon  for  me,” 


103  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

And  I tell  you,  my  dear,  that  no  chaperonage 
is  wanted,”  says  Mr.  Conyngham,  a little  captious- 
ly. The  whole  thing  is  a mistake.  There  is  a 
point  of  mistral  in  the  wind,  and  you  would  do 
far  better,  all  of  you,  to  confine  yourselves  to  the 
promenades  near  the  town.  In  any  case,  it  is  im- 
possible that  I can  be  wanted.  Mr.  Biron,  I am 
sure,  will  have  the  kindness  to  see  that  you  are 
back  within  the  shelter  of  the  house  before  sun- 
set.” 

Poor  Mr.  Conyngham,  it  must  be  remembered, 
has  never  been  called  upon  to  fulfill  the  duties  of 
a vigilant  parent,  or  learn  the  vital  difference 
between  men  of  fortune  and  detrimentals.  He 
knows  that  excursions,  picnics,  attempts  of  any 
kind  at  social  festivity,  are  distasteful  to  himself. 
He  knows  that  there  is  a point  of  mistral  in  the 
wind,  and  that  he  means  to  spend  his  afternoon, 
on  a camp-stool,  in  the  warmest  corner  of  the  Jar- 
din  d’ Acclimation  ; Perugino  at  hand  with  extra 
scarfs,  cloaks,  and  umbrellas  ; possibly  the  Scottish 
widow,  also  on  a camp-stool,  and  ready  to  ply  him 
with  the  mild  little  attentions,  semi-pious,  semi- 
mundane,  that  his  soul  loves. 

^Hf  Miss  Conyngham  will  accept  them,  myself 
and  my  walking-stick  are  at  her  disposal,”  says 
Laurence  Biron.  ‘‘A  chaperon  can  scarcely  be 
needful  for  an  afternoon’s  saunter  through  the  fir- 
forests  of  Tamaris.  A donkey-driver  may.” 

The  offer  is  one  to  be  closed  with,  especially 


“OFF  wr  AN  AULD  LOVE.’ 


103 


as  regards  the  walking-stick,”  returns  Jet.  I 
followed  inclination,  I should  go  to  Tamaris  on 
foot ; put  papa  seems  to  think  donkey-riding  the 
right  thing  for  me — a kind  of  graceful  compliment 
that  I owe  to  the  invalids  of  Esterel.” 

‘^It  would  be  very  much  more  prudent  to  give 
the  whole  expedition  up,”  Mr.  Conyngham  re- 
marks. Well  for  Jet  had  that  opinion  been  car- 
ried into  effect ! “ The  best  thing  ever  said  by  a 

Frenchman  was  Pascal’s  observation  as  to  half  the 
miseries  of  our  race  being  occasioned  by  men’s  in- 
ability to  sit  still  in  a room.  Still,  of  course,  if  you 
insist  upon  going — ” 

I shall  do  wisely  to  run  down  to  the  portico 
and  look  out  for  the  steeds,”  cries  Jet,  rising  from 
the  table  with  the  easy  abruptness  that  sits  so  well 
on  her.  “ I got  authentic  information  as  to  their 
capabilities  from  the  old  donkey-woman  before 
breakfast.  Stradella  kicks  and  lies  down  ; Le  Pe- 
tit Noir  rolls  when  he  sees  sand  ; Ragout  alone  is 
faultless.  I mean  to  secure  Ragout  before  any  one 
else  can  forestall  me. — Mr.  Biron,  will  you  come  ? ” 

She  crosses  the  salon  with  her  accjistomed 
buoyant  dancing-step,  her  girlish  face  lit  by  the 
kind  of  gladness  that  it  is  a pleasant  contagion 
only  to  behold.  Laurence  Biron  follows  her. 

I am  afraid  the  coming  of  Lady  Austen  is 
likely  to  prove  inconvenient,”  whispers  Miss  Wylie 
in  the  old  major’s  ear.  Long  ere  this  the  poor  mi- 
sogynist has  swallowed  his  breakfast  and  escaped. 


104  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


Mr.  Laurence  will  have  to  realize  the  truth  of  the 
proverb  about  being  ‘off  wi’  an  auld  love’ — don’t 
you  think  so  ? ” 

“ Lady  Austen  must  not  be  permitted  to  come 
yet  awhile,”  says  the  major — an  expression  that 
omens  ill  for  Laurence  Biron  hovering  round  the 
corners  of  his  lips.  “ She  has  asked  me  to  take 
rooms  for  herself  and  her  maid  in  this  hotel.  I 
shall  telegraph  back  word  at  once  that  none  can  be 
had  until  the  end  of  the  week.  Biron  is  a charm- 
ing fellow — a very  charming  fellow,  indeed.  It 
would  be  a thousand  pities  to  see  so  fine  a chance 
as  has  befallen  him  spoiled.” 

And,  in  effect,  when  the  donkey-expedition  has 
started  ; when  Mr.  Conyngham,  with  Perugino, 
camp-stools,  wraps,  rugs,  and  the  Scottish  widow, 
is  out  of  sight — the  little  old  major  trots  briskly 
down  the  deserted  High  Street,  and  makes  his  way 
into  the  telegraph-bureau  that  adjoins  the  post- 
office. 

“Major  Brett,  Esterel,  to  Lady  Austen,  Flor- 
ence. Not  a room  to  be  had  yet.  Have  secured 
the  apartment  you  want  for  Friday.” 

This  is  the  telegram  he  sends. 

So  it  would  seem  that  the  Reverend  Laurence 
Biron  has,  absolutely,  one  more  friend  in  the  world 
than  he  reckons  on  ! 


MORAL  DELIRIUM  TREMENS. 


105 


CHAPTER  X. 

MORAL  DELIRIUM  TREMENS. 

Between  Esterel  and  the  mountains  that  girt 
the  sea  lies  a plain,  as  fertile  in  wine,  corn,  and 
oil,  as  any  in  Europe. 

The  crops  of  maize  and  hemp  are  now  gathered 
in  ; the  grapes  have  gone  to  the  wine-press  ; hut 
as  yet,  no  look  of  bareness,  no  want  of  color,  re- 
minds the  passer-by  of  Nature’s  decay,  of  coming 
winter.  Sycamores  and  white  poplars  are  still 
thick  in  leaf.  The  vines  trail  over  the  ground 
their  last  long  wreaths  of  crimson  and  of  ochre. 
On  every  side  the  small  wild-pumpkin  clothes 
bank,  fence,  and  gable,  with  its  graceful  foliage, 
its  balls  of  saffron  gold.  In  the  farm-gardens, 
orange  and  lemon  thickets  bow  under  their  load 
of  yellowing  fruit.  The  china-rose,  used  in  this 
part  of  the  world  for  division-hedges,  loads  the 
air  with  its  delicate,  evanescent  sweetness.  Along 
sheltered  valley-paths  the  lizards  dart,  the  butter- 
flies flutter  as  though  it  were  J une.  The  country- 
people  sing  lazily  over  their  work  of  olive-picking 
in  the  shade.  It  seems,  to  one  happy  girl’s  heart 
at  least,  as  though  all  genial,  sunny  southern  life 
must  be  epitomized  in  the‘  clear  perspectives,  the 
subtile,  enchanted  mellowness  of  the  scene  and 
hour  ! 


106  JET:  HER  FACE  OK  HER  FORTUNE? 


The  cavalcade  from  the  Hotel  Paradis  keeps 
together,  in  tolerably  orderly  procession,  as  long 
as  the  way  lies  along  wall-bounded  road,  along 
level  ground.  The  moment  the  pine-woods  are 
reached,  idiosyncrasies,  both  of  man  and  beast, 
begin  to  show  themselves.  Stradella  kicks  ; Le 
Petit  Noir  rolls  with  his  rider  in  the  first  available 
bank  of  sand ; Ragout,  the  faultless,  taking  ex- 
ample from  his  fellows,  refuses  to  move  another 
step. 

And  so  ends  my  first  and  last  attempt  at  filial 
obedience,”  cries  Jet,  as  she  hands  over  her  Rosi- 
nante  with  alacrity  to  one  of  the  drivers.  Your 
walking-stick  has  fulfilled  its  duty,  Mr.  Biron.” 
Need  I say  that  Laurence  Biron  is  at  her  side  ? 

And  I have  fulfilled  mine.  Poor  papa  has  been 
so  exercised  about  respirators,  blue  spectacles,  and 
white  umbrellas,  that  I have  long  felt  it  a matter 
of  conscience  to  give  in  about  donkey-riding.  At 
length,  I have  done  it ! ” 

“ And  need  be  troubled  by  conscience  no  more,” 
says  Mr.  Biron.  Conscience,  you  know,  is  a 
myth  (we  have  it  on  the  best  authority  of  the 
nineteenth  century),  ‘ a casual  product  of  educa- 
tion— a deposit,  accidentally  left,  in  the  crucible  of 
experiment.’  . . . Now,  are  you  under  anybody’s 
charge,  Miss  Conyngham  ? I ask  the  question  of 
set  purpose.” 

Something  exceedingly  vague  was  said  about 
chaperonage,”  Jet’s  answer.  don’t  know 


MORAL  DELIRIUM  TREMENS. 


107 


that  it  got  much  further  than  your  promising  to 
see  me  home  before  nightfall,  did  it  ? ” 

Because,  if  you  are  free,  and  do  not  mind 
losing  sight  for  a while  of  all  these  people,  I can 
take  you  to  Tamaris  by  a short  cut.  There  is  a 
track  leading  through  the  thickest  part  of  the  for- 
est, that  I know  well.” 

He  ought  to  know  it  very  well.  How  often 
has  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  wandered  linger- 
ingly along  that  track,  in  other  company  than 
Jet’s  ! 

You  will  see  such  arbutus  as  you  have  never 
seen  in  your  life,”  he  proceeds,  in  answer  to  some 
slight  hesitation  that  he  reads  upon  the  girl’s  face. 

And,  by  going  a couple  of  hundred  yards  out  of 
our  way,  we  can  take  in  the  ruined  chapel  of  01- 
lioules.  Every  one  who  stays  in  Esterel  pays  a 
visit  to  Ollioules.” 

I am  not  sure  that  ^ everybody  ’ is  an  induce- 
ment,” says  Jet.  But  as  she  speaks  she  yields. 

The  temptation  would  be — a path  that  no  one’s 
foot  had  ever  trodden  before  one’s  own.” 

When  I was  your  age  I should  have  thought 
the  same,”  answers  Biron.  ^‘Now  that  I am  grow- 
ing old,  I prefer  prosaic  and  well-beaten  paths  to 
the  possible  inconvenience  of  novelty.  You  will 
take  my  arm — no?  You  do  not  find  such  an  as- 
cent as  this  too  steep  for  you?” 

“If  you  are  growing  old,  as  you  say,  it  is  I 
that  should  offer,  you  accept,  the  support,”  cries 


108  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

Jet,  with  one  of  her  little  airs  of  mockery.  ‘^ISTow 
be  sure,  sir,  you  do  not  let  me  walk  too  quick  for 
you.  Care  for  the  old  and  infirm  is  not  one  of  my 
virtues,  I am  afraid.” 

How  fair  she  looks,  turning  her  sparkling  face 
over  her  shoulder  as  she  speaks  to  him  ! What 
affluence  of  youth,  of  hope,  of  promise,  is  in  her 
every  tone  and  m.ovement  ! 

To  most  people  enjoyment  comes  by  fits  and 
starts.  With  Jet  Conyngham  it  is  perennial. 
Every  one  of  her  hours  is  vivid,  full-flavored;  her 
high-pitched  temperament  intensifying  common- 
place life  as  older,  less  fortunate,  people  contrive 
artificially  to  intensify  it  by  music,  opium,  wine, 
the  drama,  love. 

Laurence  Biron,  tired  of  all  things — of  pleas- 
ure most  of  all — is  good-humoredly  tolerant  of 
her  enthusiasm,  as  he  might  be  of  the  prattle  of  a 
child. 

What  weakness  is  not  pardonable  in  a pretty 
girl  of  nineteen  ? 

What  eccentricity  is  not  adorable  in  the  heiress 
to  forty  thousand  pounds  ? 

They  saunter  slowly,  slowly  through  the  for- 
ests. . . . Ah,  these  southern  pine-forests  on  a 
roseate  November  day  ! — every  varied,  fleeting 
blush  of  autumn  painting  glade  and  thicket ; the 
arbutus-berries  ablaze;  lavender,  myrtle,  and  giant 
wild-thyme,  loading  the  warm  air  with  incense ! 
Do  you  suppose  two  people,  each  more  than  half 


Moral  delirium  tremens. 


109 


in  love,  would  remember  prudently  to  consult 
watches,  or  keep  count  of  distance,  among  such 
surroundings  ? 

By  the  time^  Biron  and  his  companion  reach 
Ollioules  the  sun  has  grown  visibly  nearer  the 
horizon,  the  shadows  lie  long.  Unless  Jet  Con- 
yngham  take  heed,  darkness  will  surely  overtake 
her,  unawares,  as  it  did  in  Avignon  ; again,  as  in 
Avignon,  with  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  for 
a protector. 

But  Jet’s  spirit  is  lifted  too  high  above  mun- 
dane considerations  for  her  to  dread  this,  or  any 
other  danger.  They  enter  the  little  chapel — a 
ruin  save  at  the  chancel-end,  where  just  sufficient 
roof  holds  together  to  shelter  a primitive  altar — two 
upright  slabs  of  marble,  before  which,  at  harvest 
and  vintage  feasts,  mass  is  still  occasionally  said. 

A solitary  figure  kneels  there — a mendicant 
Brown  Brother — his  hollow  face  half  hidden  by 
his  hood,  his  wan  hands  clasped  above  his  head, 
a crucifix  between  them,  in  rapt  and  silent  prayer. 

At  the  sight  of  this  poor  figure,  contrasted  with 
the  sunshine  and  joy  of  the  external  world.  Jet’s 
heart  is  thrilled,  she  knows  not  how  or  wherefore. 
A choking  sensation,  nearly  allied  to  tears,  rises 
in  her  throat. 

Mr.  Biron  takes  out  the  needful  materials  from 
his  breast-pocket,  and  begins  to  roll  himself  a ciga- 
rette. 

You  have  so  often  given  me  leave  to  smoke, 


110  JET:  Em  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


Miss  Conyngliam,  that  I forget  to  ask  permission. 
The  usual  perverting  influence  of  kindness  upon 
human  nature.” 

He  has  not  taken  off  his  hat.  Perhaps  in  the 
case  of  a half -ruined  church,  or  in  the  absence  of 
spectators,  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  would 
hold  such  an  action  superstitious.  His  tone  is  so 
unaffectedly  loud  that  the  Brown  Brother  looks 
round  from  his  devotions  with  a start. 

Jet  Conyngham  feels  herself  chilled. 

Not  quite  for  the  flrst  time,  instinct  tells  her 
how  wide  a gulf  lies  between  her  faith — her^  sim- 
ple child’s  faith  in  human  nature,”  however  dis- 
guised— and  Mr.  Laurence  Biron’s  cui-hono  phi- 
losophy. 

Hush  ! we  are  disturbing  him,”  she  whispers, 
drawing  hastily  back  toward  the  door. 

Disturbing  ! Whom — what  ? Oh,  the  pray- 
ing fellow,”  says  Biron.  “ They  are  a pest  through- 
out all  the  south — veritable  locusts  infesting  the 
land.  Still,  I suppose  the  artists  could  not  do 
without  them — as  foregrounds.” 

And  you  do  not  believe  in  that  man’s  hon- 
esty ? ” exclaims  Jet,  her  lips  aquiver. 

“The  honesty  of  moral  delirium  tremens,” 
Biron  answers,  with  his  usual  satisfled  inconclu- 
siveness. “ I cannot  say  that  I have  ever  looked 
at  a Brother  from  so  high  a plane.  They  are 
honestly  dirty  and  honestly  fond  of  getting  money. 
So  much  is  certain.” , 


MORAL  DELIRIUM  TREMENS. 


Ill 


And  the  remark  receives  prompt  confirmation. 
When  they  are  about  a dozen  paces  from  the 
chapel  of  Ollioules,  the  Brown  Brother  overtakes 
them — and  begs. 

As  Biron  tosses  him  a franc,  Jet  sees  the  poor 
wretch’s  face  full. 

It  is  sallow,  sunken,  thin,  to  the  last  point 
of  emaciation.  Two  cavernous  dark  eyes  flame 
from  beneath  the  shadows  of  his  hood.  The 
knotted  rope  around  his  waist  is  stained  with 
blood. 

“ One  of  the  numerous  Order  of  Flagellants,” 
says  Biron.  You  have  not  been  in  Italy  yet  ? 
I thought  not.  You  would  soon  get  tired  of  the 
odor  of  sanctity  there — picturesque  penitents  aton- 
ing for  their  sins  by  hair  shirts  and  knotted  ropes, 
but  paying  for  their  wine  and  macaroni  out  of  the 
purses  of  the  heretical.” 

I should  not  get  tired  of  sanctity  that  was 
real,”  she  answers,  her  eyes  still  fixed  upon  the 
retreating  figure  of  the  Brown  Brother.  “Self- 
sacrifice,  even  though  it  leads  nowhere,  is  a thing 
so  rare  one  must  respect  it.  If  these  poor  fellows 
are  thorough,  I think  members  of  some  other 
churches  might  imitate  them  to  advantage,  espe- 
cially in  the  matter  of  knotted  ropes.” 

“ Miss  Conyngham,  you  are  severe.” 

“Not  upon  you,  sir.  Hair  shirts  and  knotted 
ropes  are  matters  with  which  I should  never  dream 
of  connecting  Mr.  Laurence  Biron.” 


112  JET:  HEK  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUiNE? 


Something  in  her  manner  is  little  to  Biron’s 
liking. 

‘‘You  think  me  indifferent!”  he  exclaims, 
with  well-assumed,  if  it  he  not  genuine,  earnest- 
ness— “indifferent  on  the  highest,  most  vital  of 
all  subjects  ! A score  of  times  I have  divined 
your  opinion  of  me  with  pain.  If  you  knew — 
but  these  are  things  scarcely  to  be  spoken  of. 
The  truth  is.  Miss  Conyngham,  from  the  time  I 
was  a lad  at  college  I have  been — an  eclectic.” 

Jet’s  studies  not  having  familiarized  her  with 
the  term,  she  remains  silent. 

“Sharp,  dogmatic  views,  blind  adherence  to 
High  or  Low,  are  what  advances  a man  in  the 
Church  of  England.  My  opinions  have  been — my 
own,  at  least  never  the  watchwords  of  a party. 
And  I have  not  advanced.  At  seven-and-thirty — 
the  fellows  who  began  life  when  I did  filling  preb- 
ends’ stalls,  or  good,  fat  livings — you  see  me  as 
I am  ! A Bohemian — I had  almost  said  a pariah  ! ” 

“ A pariah,  Mr.  Biron — you  ? ” 

“A  kind  of  black-sheep  parson,  at  least — a 
clerical  outsider,  esteeming  myself  singularly  lucky 
if  I can  conduct  a service  or  coach  a pupil  for  the 
three  or  four  winter  months,  and  at  all  times  too 
diffident  of  my  connection  with  things  spiritual 
to  venture  upon  the  prefix  of  ‘ reverend  ’ before 
my  name.” 

Well,  reader,  if  Jet  Conyngham  had  had  a 
few  more  years’  experience  of  men  and  things,  or 


MORAL  DELIRIUM  TREMENS. 


113 


if  Jet  Conyngham  were  still  fancy  free,  small 
doubt  that  she  would  set  down  Mr.  Laurence  Bi- 
ron’s  confession  at  its  worth — as  a specious  bit  of 
clap-trap. 

Abstaining  from  party  w^atchwords,  though 
such  abstinence  lead  away  from  prebends’  stalls, 
need  not  necessarily  deter  a man  from  doing  his' 
work  in  England  as  a curate.  Bohemianism  (in 
luxurious  southern  hotels  at  fifteen  francs  per 
diem)  can  scarcely  be  looked  upon  as  the  legiti- 
mate and  logical  outcome  of  eclecticism.” 

But  Jet’s  sound  common-sense,  for  the  first 
time  since  she  was  born,  is  warped.  And  the  tone 
of  Biron’s  voice,  a certain  wearied  expression  on 
his  handsome  face,  strike  to  her  heart. 

Like  all  young  and  enthusiastic  women,  she  is 
disposed  to  martyr-worship.  What  martyrdom  so 
touching  as  his  who  sacrifices  temporal  advance- 
ment, temporal  wages,  for  conscience’  sake,  and  at 
the  lofty  bidding  of  conviction  ? 

“Forgive  me,  Mr.  Biron.  I spoke  foolishly. 
There  must  have  been  sufferings  harder  to  bear 
than  hair  shirts  and  flagellations  in  a life  like 
yours.  Can  you  forgive  me  ? ” 

“ Forgive  you  ? ” is  his  answer.  “ I should 
ask,  on  the  contrary,  if  you  can  pardon  me  for 
speaking  of  matters  so  closely  personal  that  they 
can  interest  no  one  but  myself.  But  do  you  know 
that  is  a witchcraft  you  possess  ? ” 

Somehow,  it  does  not  surprise  Jet  Conyngham 

8 


114  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


that,  as  he  speaks,  Mr.  Biron  should  take  her  hand 
and  draw  it  gently  within  his  arm. 

You  make  me  feel,  in  spite  of  your  youth  and 
my  age,  that  I can  talk  to  you  from  my  soul — talk 
as  I could  do  to  no  other  human  creature  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.” 

Not  even  to  Lady  Austen  ? ” 

Lady  Austen  ? Really,  I am  glad  to  think 
you  will  soon  make  her  acquaintance — know  my 
mysterious  friend  and  correspondent  as  she  is. 
An  excellent-hearted  creature,  take  her  altogeth- 
er,” admits  Biron,  magnanimously.  I should 
be  the  most  ungrateful  fellow  living  were  I insen- 
sible to  Lady  Austen’s  sterling  qualities.  Warm- 
hearted where  she  takes  a fancy,  liberal  as  regards 
money — ” 

“Liberal — and  how?”  interrupts  Jet,  with  a 
quick  movement  of  repulsion.  “Liberal  to  her 
tradespeople,  to  charitable  institutions,  to  the  poor 
— or  how  ? ” 

“ Oh  ! liberal  to  the  poor,  of  course,”  says 
Laurence  Biron.  “ Surely,  Miss  Conyngham, 
you  do  not  undervalue  the  virtue  of  munifi- 
cence ? ” 

“ I think  it  a remarkably  cheap  virtue,  I must 
confess.  What  form  of  self-sacrifice  can  be  lower 
than  that  which  entails  but  the  trouble  of  taking 
out  a purse  ? But,  then,  I am  absolutely  indiffer- 
ent to  money,”  she  adds,  with  unaflPected  careless- 
ness. 


MORAL  DELIRIUM  IREMENS. 


115 


You  are,  fortunately,  in  a position  where  you 
uan  afford  to  be  indifferent.” 

I do  not  know  about  that.  My  sister  and  I 
have  grown  up,  as  I dare  say  you  have  heard,  al- 
ways looking  a large  fortune  in  the  face.  Well, 
since  the  time  we  were  urchins  so  high,  it  has  been 
a settled  thing  between  us  that — were  there  no 
such  thing  as  law — we  would  gladly  have  drawn 
lots  for  the  heirship.  Cora  the  heiress.  Jet  the 
pauper — Jet  the  heiress,  Cora  the  pauper.  What 
would  it  have  signified  ? Could  the  possession  of 
some  poor  forty  thousand  pounds  add  a fraction 
to  your  happiness  ? ” 

Laurence  Biron  feels,  with  fervent  sincerity, 
how  infinite  a number  of  fractions  it  could  add 
to  his.  But  he  has  sufficient  tact  to  keep  silent. 
With  a living  paradox,  a creature  eccentric,  flighty, 
impulsive  as  Jet,  he  feels  how  easy  it  were  to  over- 
step the  bounds  of  prudence  in  this  delicate  ques- 
tion of  money. 

Probably,  ere  this,  the  girl  has  had  mercenary 
wooers — even  to  himself,  Biron  would  not  admit 
that  he  could  be  classed  among  them — and,  wom- 
anlike, feels  jealous  of  the  fortune  that  stands  in 
the  position  of  rival  to  her  face. 

‘‘  Your  sister  will  be  here  this  week,  will  she 
not  ? ” he  asks,  with  a duly-toned  air  of  interest  in 
all  for  which  she  cares.  I am  looking  forward 
eagerly  to  seeing  her.” 

“Dear,  good  little  Cora!  Yes,  if  Adolphus 


116  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUHEI^ 


allows  her  to  start  at  the  last,  Cora  will  be  in  Es- 
terel  in  four  days.” 

Adolphus?”  repeats  Biron,  vaguely  uneasy 
at  hearing  a masculine  name  familiarly  spoken  by 
Jet. 

Cora’s  future  husband.  The  Reverend  Adol- 
phus Myers,  Rector  of  Dulford.  She  is  staying  at 
his  mother’s  house  now,  poor  little  soul ! ” 

You  pity  her  for  being  near  her  lover?” 
pity  her  for  having  a lover  to  be  near. 
Fancy  a child  who  has  never  seen  anything  of  the 
world  but  Devonshire  electing  to  pass  the  remain- 
der of  her  days  in  Dulford — as  a clergyman’s  wife, 
too ! ” 

“ ‘ And  often  I have  wished  to  know 
How  you  could  marry  a solicitor.’ 

To  become  a clergyman’s  wife  is  evidently  not 
your  beau-idkd  of  human  success.  Miss  Conyng- 
ham  ? ” 

As  Biron  speaks,  a sharp  bend  in  the  path 
brings  them  to  the  limits  of  the  upland  forest. 
The  village  of  Tamaris  lies  at  their  feet,  its  flat- 
roofed,  white  houses,  its  solitary  row  of  cypress 
standing  out  in  vivid  relief  against  the  blue  back- 
ground of  the  Mediterranean.  Upon  the  right 
tower  the  giant  granite  masses  of  the  Col  Noir, 
purple  already  at  their  base,  but  with  every  ex- 
quisite upper-air  depth  bathed  in  violet,  rose,  and 
amber,  by  the  sinking  sun. 

The  sudden  crispness  of  the  air,  the  true  Rivie- 


MORAL  DELIRIUM  TREMENS. 


117 


ra  sensation  of  a summer’s  day  iced,  brings  forci- 
bly to  Jet’s  mind  the  lateness  of  the  hour — the 
distance  from  the  Hotel  Paradis.  And  she  looks 
round  her  with  a start. 

Not  a trace  of  the  donkey  pilgrimage,  not  a 
trace  of  any  living  form,  is  to  be  seen. 

“ So  much  for  your  short  cut,  Mr.  Biron ! ” 
she  cries,  a little  tremor  in  her  voice.  I cannot 
regret  it.  I cannot  regret  anything  so  beautiful 
as  Ollioules  and  the  forests.  But  I know  that 
night  is  coming  on,  and  that  there  is  a four-mile 
Avalk  between  us  and  Esterel.” 

By  the  time  the  sun  is  down,  I undertake  to 
say  that  you  shall  be  within  shelter  of  the  Para- 
dis,” answers  Biron,  quietly.  It  is  now  half -past 
three — Fate  has  timed  it  all  for  us  to  a nicety — 
and  exactly  below,  not  a stone’s-throw  distant,  lies 
the  station  of  Tamaris.  The  afternoon  train  from 
Toulon  will  pass  in  half  an  hour,  and,  while  our 
friends  are  wearily  plodding  their  way  back  with 
Stradella  and  Ragout,  you  and  I can  return  by 
rail,  and  reach  the  hotel  before  them.  This  leaves 
us  still  thirty  minutes  to  enjoy  this  scene.  Are 
you  dissatisfied  ? ” 

Dissatisfied ! Standing  thus,  amid  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  woods,  her  hand  on  Biron’s  arm,  the 
wild  pageantry  of  western  sky  before  her,  it  is  to 
Jet  Conyngham  as  though  she  stood  upon  the 
brink  of  Eden. 

And  her  eyes  betray  her. 


118  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

Now,  or  nevermore,  thinks  the  Reverend  Lau- 
rence Biron,  is  the  venture  to  be  made,  the  one 
possible  emancipation  of  his  fettered,  humiliated 
life  to  be  played  for. 

He  remains  for  a minute  irresolute — a minute 
of  tension  so  keen,  of  calculation  so  nice,  to  be  al- 
most agony.  Then,  as  though  moved  by  uncon- 
trollable impulse,  he  throws  his  arms  around  the 
girl’s  slight  figure,  draws  her  abruptly  to  his  side, 
and  kisses  her. 


CHAPTER  XL 

AN  ESTHETIC  CONSCIENCE. 

My  fate  was  decided  in  the  first  moment  that 
I saw  you  at  Avignon,  Miss  Conyngham.” 

After  the  sacristan  had  led  me  astray.  I ac- 
cept the  compliment,  Mr.  Biron.  In  that  first  mo- 
ment it  was  dark  as  Erebus.” 

I had  seen  you  already  in  the  salon  of  the 
hotel.  Little  though  you  suspected  it,  I had 
watched  your  every  movement,  admired  the  femi- 
nine astuteness  of  your  arguments  as  you  brought 
your  father,  inch  by  inch,  to  consent  to  your  go- 
ing out.” 

‘‘  And  then  followed  me,  of  course  with  pro- 
phetic knowledge  that  I should  come  to  grief. 
Putting  all  this  nonsense  aside  (by-the-way” — 
Jet’s  cheek  mantles — never  pay  me  another  com- 


AN  JESTHETIO  CONSCIENCE. 


.119 


pliment  from  this  moment  forth),  what  did  you 
really  and  honestly  think  of  me  that  first  evening 
in  Avignon  ? ” 

thought  your  face  the  fairest  that  ever 
shone  on  mortal  man.” 

I do  not  want  to  hear  about  my  face.  What 
did  you  think  of  me,  Jet  Conyngham?  It  seemed 
to  me  afterward  I ought  not  to  have  taken  your 
arm.” 

“ It  did  not  seem  so  to  me.” 

^^Or  have  gone  shopping  with  you  before  I 
knew  your  name.  That  could  not  have  been  cor- 
rect ? ” 

‘‘It  was  a great  deal  better  than  correct.  It 
was  frank,  ingenuous,  unfearing,  like  yourself. 
The  only  chill  I got  was  when  you  took  my  card 
and  wished  me  good-night.  You  showed  no  hu- 
man feeling  whatsoever,  no  faintest  curiosity  as 
to  whether  Smith,  Jones,  or  Robinson,  had  been 
your  companion.  You  lifted  your  head  in  the  air 
a great  deal  higher  than  you  lift  it  at  this  moment. 
Miss  Conyngham,  and  walked  majestically  away, 
leaving  me  morally  and  physically  in  the  cold.” 

The  thirty  minutes  have  not  yet  expired.  The 
lovers  stand,  still,  at  the  same  point  of  the  forest ; 
the  darkening  fir-thickets  behind,  the  pink  and 
opal  glories  of  the  sunset  in  front ; the  point 
Avhose  remembrance,  married  to  Laurence  Biron, 
or  divided  from  him,  must  cut  Jet  Conyngham’s 
life  sharply  in  twain,  as  with  a sword. 


120  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


No  formal  declaration  or  acceptance  has  passed 
between  them — do  formal  declarations  ever  take 
place  save  before  the  foot-lights  ? A kiss,  a whis- 
pered word — a few  seconds  during  which  Biron’s 
arms  locked  her  close.  This  is  all  Jet  remembers 
of  the  supreme  crisis  of  her  existence. 

But  none  the  less  does  Biron  know  that  he  has 
won  her  irrevocably. 

In  the  case  of  an  heiress  who  chanced  to  be  a 
woman  of  the  world  as  well  as  heiress,  Mr.  Biron 
would  scarcely  feel  satisfied  without  some  exact 
prof&ise,  some  definite  mention  of  the  sacred,  re- 
assuring word,  marriage.” 

To  have  kissed  J et  Conyngham,  to  have  held 
her,  unrepulsed,  in  his  arms,  he  knows,  by  some 
instinct  truer  than  himself,  to  be  sufficient.  The 
girl  will  be  his  wife. 

And  when  I think  that  a short  fortnight  ago 
we  were  strangers  to  each  other,”  he  whispers, 
tenderly,  my  good-fortune  seems  beyond  belief. 
How  have  I deserved,  how  shall  I ever  deserve, 
such  happiness  as  has  fallen  to  ine  ? ” 

I might  ask  the  same  question.  What  can 
there  be  in  a foolish  girl  of  my  age  that,  out  of 
the  whole  w^orld,  you  should  have  chosen  me  ? ” 

Her  humility  almost  occasions  Mr.  Biron  a pang 
of  compunction.  That  Jet  Conyngham,  or  any 
other  woman,  should  care  for  him — well,  rather 
than  wisely — is  not  surprising.  Laurence  Biron 
has  not  reached  his  thirty-eighth  year  without* 


AN  ESTHETIC  CONSCIENCE.  l;>i 

testing  his  own  powers  of  fascination.  It  la  ner 
meek  surrendering  of  wealth,  her  unconditional 
acceptance  of  a man  so  notoriously  bankrupt  as 
himself,  that  wellnigh  pricks  his  conscience. 

Your  father  may  take  a different  view  of  my 
merits  from  yours,”  he  remarks,  gravely.  We 
need  not  consult  him  yet.  For  three  or  four  days, 
whatever  comes,  let  me  know  the  taste  of  a F ool’s 
Paradise  ! Your  father  may  well  hold  you  too 
young,  too  fair,  too  gifted  in  every  respect,  to  be 
thrown  away  upon  me.” 

Thrown  away  ! ” she  exclaims,  smiling  at  him 
with  her  eyes,  though  her  lips  keep  serious.  I 
have  forbidden  you  to  pay  me  compliments,  Mr. 
Biron.  Do  you  wish  the  tables  turned  ? Am  I 
to  begin  making  pretty  speeches  to  you  ? or  are 
you  in  jest  ? ” 

It  is  a matter  of  sober  earnest,  I am  afraid. 
I am  a very  poor  man — what  is  worse,  perhaps,  a 
man  without  prospects.” 

A man  with  your  ability  cannot  be  that ! ” she 
cries,  a flush  rising  on  her  face.  “ For  money,  as 
I told  you  once  already  to-day,  I care  nothing.  I 
have  ambition.  I should  like  to  see  you  distin- 
guished through  your  own  work,  your  own  tal- 
ents.” 

Ambition,  work,  talents.  The  words  sound 
emptily,  like  echoes  from  a long-dead  past,  to  the 
Reverend  Laurence  Biron.  Personal  ease,  per- 
sonal conifort,  the  certainty  that  he  need  never 


122  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


again  put  on  a white  tie — save  for  a dinner-party; 
never  again  submit  to  tyranny  or  caprice  of  Lady 
Austen’s — this  is  the  limit  to  his  philosophy,  to 
his  hopes  ; this,  as  much  as  he  desires  from  that 
poor  vanity  of  vanities,  that  unstable  equilibrium 
of  moral  forces  which  we  name — -life  ! ” 

You  are  enthusiastic.  Miss  Conyngham,  and 
your  enthusiasm  sits  well  on  you.  Only,  do  not 
forget  that  I have  just  eighteen  years  less  heart  in 
everything  than  yourself.” 

“ Are  you  always  going  to  call  me  Miss  Con- 
yngham, I wonder  ? ” 

I have  been  waiting  for  your  permission  to 
say  Jet.” 

Jet ! Mr.  Biron’s  manner  of  dwelling  on  the 
name  turns  it,  in  its  owner’s  ears,  into  a caress. 

I could  have  fallen  in  love  with  a girl  called 
Jet,”  he  adds,  ‘^even  if  I had  never  seen  her.” 

For  me  it  is  a misnomer.  People  have  told 
me  so  from  the  time  I could  run  alone.  But  it  is 
a favorite  Boston  name,  an  old  name  in  my  moth- 
er’s family,  and  I have  not  been  put  out  of  conceit 
with  it.  ‘Jet  should,  properly,  be  a young  person 
with  an  alabaster  skin,  and  a high,  polished  fore- 
head. Her  hair  and  eyelashes  should  match  her 
name.  Her  profile  should  be  Grecian,  her  temper 
perfect.’  ” 

“ Temper  ! ” exclaims  Biron,  in  mock  alarm. 
And  taking  both  the  girl’s  hands — those  long, 
shapely,  sunburned  hands  of  Jet’s — he  raises  them 


AN  ESTHETIC  CONSCIENCE. 


123 


CO  his  lips  and  presses  them  there ; presses  them 
with  a kind  of  slow  delight — much  as  one  might 
inhale  the  sweetness  of  June’s  early  roses,  or  the 
first  freshness  of  daybreak.  ‘‘You  do  not  mean 
to  tell  me  you  possess  a temper  ? ” 

“If  you  had  not  made  me  prisoner,  I might 
give  you  a quick  answer  to  that  question.” 

“ Prisoner — poor  little  Jet ! ” Still  keeping  her 
hands,  he  looks  down  with  a kind  of  pity  (have  I 
not  said  that  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  owns 
an  aesthetic  conscience,  reserved  for  rare  and  pictu- 
resque occasions  ?)  upon  her  candid  face.  “ Some 
day,  perhaps,  you  will  realize  the  meaning  of  that 
word  ‘ prisoner.’  ” 

“Just  as  some  day,  perhaps,  you  will  realize 
the  meaning  of  the  word  ‘temper.’  Depend  upon 
it,  Mr.  Biron,  I shall,  under  all  circumstances,  be 
able  to  take  care  of  nayself.  I am  made  of  stout 
materials.” 

“ How  soon  do  you  mean  to  leave  off  calling  me 
‘ Mr.  Biron ? ’”  he  asks. 

“Never,  I should  think,”  is  Jet’s  answer. 
“ What  better  name  could  I find  for  you  than  your 
own?” 

“ And,  still,  I am  forbidden  to  call  you  ‘ Miss 
Conyngham  ! ’ ” 

“ That  is  different.  It  seems  natural,  a matter 
of  course,  to  hear  you  say  ‘Jet.’” 

“ And  it  would  seem  natural,  remarkably  pleas- 
ant, at  all  eyents,  to  hear  you  say  ‘ Laurence.’  ” 


124  JET:  HER  FACE  CR  HER  FORTUNE? 


She  thinks  the  subject  seriously  over  for  a few 
moments,  then  she  shakes  her  head. 

If  I tried  for  an  hour,  I could  never  bring  my 
lips  to  speak  it,  Mr.  Biron.  Just  think ! I have 
only  known  you  a fortnight.  You  are  eighteen 
years  older  than  I am,  and — ” 

^^If  you  were  logical,  child — mind,  I do  not 
expect  it  of  you — I only  remark  if  you  were  logi- 
cal (as  your  father  will,  doubtless,  be) — these  con- 
siderations might  hold  good  in  weightier  questions 
than  that  of  Christian  names.” 

J et  does  not  answer. 

Come  ! I give  you  one  minute  for  reflection,” 
he  remarks,  still  holding  her  in  close  captivity. 

Our  time  is  short.  The  train  will  pass  through 
Tamaris  almost  immediately.  But  I am  deter- 
mined before  we  leave  this  spot  that  you  shall  call 
me  ^Laurence.’  You  know  I have  you  in  my 
power.” 

Have  you,  indeed  ? That  is  saying  a great 
deal  more  than  any  living  being  has  ever  been  able 
to  say  yet.” 

I cannot  look  at  my  watch.”  And,  in  truth, 
Jet’s  wrists  are  strong.  It  requires  both  Mr.  Bi- 
ron’s  hands  to  hold  her  in  durance  vile.  But  I 
can  calculate  a minute  pretty  accurately.” 

“ And  suppose  I refuse  to  obey  ? ” 

‘‘You  will  have  to  pay  the  penalty  of  your 
disobedience.” 

“ Mr.  Biron — sir  ! ” 


BACCARAT. 


m 


Her  color  deepening  angrily,  her  eyes  flashing 
fire,  as  she  discovers  his  meaning. 

He  loosens  her  hands  in  a second. 

We  will  not  speak  of  penalties.  I ask  you 
for  a kiss.  Jet,  given  freely,  and  of  your  own  ac- 
cord.” 

She  hesitates — pride,  coyness,  shame,  painted 
by  turns  upon  her  face.  Then  a feeling  stronger 
than  all  these  gains  mastery.  She  murmurs  his 
name — she  lifts  her  arms  around  Laurence  Biron’s 
neck  ! 


CHAPTER  XIL 

BACCARAT. 

Mr.  Conykgham’s  half  point  of  mistral  ” 
comes  to  fierce  maturity  toward  midnight.  Next 
day  a very  cyclone  bursts  over  Esterel.  Dust  and 
gravel  are  borne  along  the  narrow  streets  in  col- 
umns ; chimneys  are  blown  down  ; roofs  are  bio  wn 
off.  Fragments  of  palm,  aloes,  and  cactus,  all  the 
last  autumn  glories  of  the  Paradis  garden,  beat 
up  in  showers  against  the  salon- windows.  Not  a 
fire  in  the  house  but  smokes  ; not  an  inmate  of 
the  house  but  grumbles. 

In  vain  do  Schmidt  and  secretary  pronounce  it 
to  be  a saison  exceptionelle  ; ” in  vain  the  wait- 
ers declare  that  such  a wind  has  never  been  ex- 
perienced in  Esterel  during  the  memory  of  man. 


126  JET:  HER  FACE  QR  HER  FORTUNE? 

Old  travelers  like  Mr.  Conyngliam  wrap  themselves 
in  furs  and  cloaks,  wretchedly  exultant  over  their 
fellows,  and  pronounce  the  winter  to  be  beginning. 
Let  sanguine  new-comers,  believers  in  London 
physicians  and  in  the  mild  climate  of  the  south, 
wait  till  February  if  they  would  see  the  mistral 
at  its  worst  ! 

Toward  evening  it  rains — not  as  one  sees  the 
process  conducted  in  England,  but  rather  as  though 
sheets  of  water  were  being  flung  earthward  from 
some  Cyclopean  fire-engine  in  the  skies.  And  then 
comes  another  outburst  of  mistral  ; and  then,  dur- 
ing two  consecutive  days  and  nights,  dull,  steady, 
down-pouring  torrents  of  sleet  and  rain. 

On  the  third  day,  rain  or  shine,  the  Reverend 
Laurence  Biron  finds  himself  obliged  to  give  up 
the  taste,  hourly  becoming  sweeter,  of  his  Fool’s 
Paradise,  and  to  depart  for  Nice. 

Brilliantly  certain  though  his  prospects  may 
be,  clearly  though  Jet’s  forty  thousand  pounds 
may  loom  before  him  in  the  future,  Mr.  Biron,  at 
the  present  moment,  is  in  one  of  the  chronic 
money-difficulties  of  his  life — Schmidt  and  secre- 
tary having  hinted  to  him,  politely,  but  with  firm- 
ness, that  his  last  two  hotel-bills  remain  unpaid. 
Le  Reverend  was  unaware — so  Schmidt  and  sec- 
retary are  assured — that  bills  in  their  establish- 
ment never  remain  unpaid  after  the  second  week. 
If  it  would  be  convenient  to  Le  Reverend  to  write 
them  a check  to-morrow  morning  ? — 


BACCARAT. 


12? 


Not  only  is  it  not  convenient,  it  is  not  possible 
for  Le  Reverend  to  write  a check  to-morrow  or 
any  other  morning.  Le  Reverend,  bankrupt  even 
in  credit,  no  longer  goes  through  the  form  of  car- 
rying about  a check-book  in  his  portmanteau. 

A philosopher  of  old,  exhorting  his  disciples 
to  bear  life  with  equanimity,  was  wont  to  remind 
them  that  they  could  quit  it  by  the  act  of  their 
own  hand  when  they  listed  : “ One  door  stands 
ever  open.” 

The  door  of  moral  suicide  has  stood  open  to 
Biron  for  years  ; and,  until  he  received  miladi’s 
letter,  until  he  saw  Jet  Conyngham’s  face  in  Avi- 
gnon, it  was  his  intention  to  bow,  now,  this  very 
present  vunter,  to  a destiny  too  strong  for  him. 
Creditors,  duns,  bill-discounters,  Hebrews — with 
all  these  ills  he  is  familiar,  to  satiety.  Better,  by 
opposing,  end  them  : marry  Lady  Austen,  and  let 
his  soul  die  in  peace  ! 

Peace,  as  the  legitimate  slave  of  the  tyrant 
who,  during  years  of  guerrilla  warfare,  has  alter- 
nately ruled  over  and  crouched  before  him  ! 
Peace,  as  the  life-companion  of  a withered  beauty, 
an  old  coquette,  a human  soul  without  interest  or 
ambition  on  this  planet  of  ours  beyond  pearl- 
powder,  visiting-cards,  ]\J.  Worth,  and  chiffons ; 
a human  soul  animated  by  a single  pagsion — in- 
cluding in  itself  all  minor  ones  of  greed,  mean- 
ness, jealousy,  selfishness — a single,  master,  and 
consuming  passion — vanity  ! 


128  HER  FICE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

Well,  a man  must  live — unless,  indeed,  he  fan- 
cy a pistol-shot  better  than  a mercenary  marriage. 
(During  the  small  hours  of  many  a wretched 
night,  after  dinner  or  supper,  of  which  he  has 
been  head- jester,  the  alternative  has  pressed  itself 
upon  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron’s  mind  !)  A 
man  must  live ; and  somehow  clerical  Bohemian- 
ism,  however  picturesque,  does  not  seem  to  be  a 
well-paying  venture  after  the  age  of  five  or  six 
and  thirty. 

Up  to  that  middle  mark  of  existence  Laurence 
Biron,  throughout  all  his  varied  adventures,  mone- 
tary and  otherwise,  seemed  sure  of  falling  on  his 
feet.  Plausible,  gifted — with  such  gifts  as  society 
values — young,  the  world  had  shown  more  than 
its  accustomed  leniency  in  condoning  the  hand- 
some spendthrift  parson’s  offenses. 

He  was  poor,  let  his  poverty  plead  for  him  ; a 
gambler,  but  a generous  one  ; a freethinker,  but  a 
freethinker  who,  at  least,  had  the  courage  of  his 
opinions.  Let  him  come  to  maturity,  work  free 
from  the  Austen  influence  ” which  had  been  his 
ruin,  and  it  would  be  seen  of  what  material  the 
man  was  really  made. 

His  thirty-fifth  birthday  over,  and  his  chances 
of  rehabilitation  seemed  over,  too.  The  Austen 
influence  ” continued  : it  began  to  be  seen  of  what 
material  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  was  made, 
and,  seeing,  the  world  shrugged  its  shoulders,  and 
passed  by  upon  the  other  side. 


I 


baccarat. 


129 


In  vain  during  the  last  eighteen  months  had  he 
sought  for  duty  as  chaplain  or  as  tutor.  ^^Mr. 
Biron’s  talents  ” — so,  from  agencies  and  from 
friends  alike,  came  back  the  answer  to  all  his  ap- 
plications. “Had  he  only  written  one  week'soon- 
er,  he  might  have  obtained  such  a chaplaincy  or 
such  a pupil.”  With  stereotyped  expressions  of 
regret,  with  assurance  that,  should  a vacancy  of- 
fer, his  application  and  his  merits  would  be  borne 
in  mind. 

No  one  had  a vacant  pulpit  for  him  ! No- 
where did  any  well-paying  young  gentleman,  of 
neglected  education,  want  a coach  ! 

He  was  no  worse  a man  than  he  had  been  two 
years  ago  ; no  fonder  of  baccarat  or  race-courses  ; 
no  laxer  in  his  clerical  views. 

Simply,  he  had  grown  unpopular. 

How  if  the  door  of  moral  suicide  should  be 
shut  upon  him — if  Lady  Austen,  most  fickle  of 
women,  should  go  the  way  of  the  crowd,  bestow 
her  affections  and  her  jointure  upon  some  Dr. 
Herzlieb  of  the  minute,  and  leave  him  penni- 
less? 

The  possibility  had  been  brought  home  to  him, 
during  a short  stay  in  England,  by  a certain  grow- 
ing tone  of  fretfulness  in  miladi’s  letters  ; and,  as 
I have  said,  his  resolution  was  already  taken  when 
he  met  Jet  Conyngham — Jet,  whom  to  look  at 
was  to  love,  every  v/hisper  of  whose  girlish  voice 
was  music,  and  whose  heart,  whose  fortune,  almost 


130  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


before  he  had  set  himself  to  the  task  in  earnest, 
he  had  won. 

Biron’s  intention  had  been  to  commit  moral 
suicide,  to  become  the  husband  of  Lady  Austen. 
Without  merit  or  demerit  of  his,  he  finds  himself 
the  lover  of  all  that  is  sweet  and  pure  in  woman, 
honorable  ease  his  portion  for  the  future — with 
only  an  empty  purse,  only  the  petty  annoyance  of 
Schmidt  and  secretary  asking  payment  of  a bill, 
as  present  drawback. 

A bill  for  some  three  or  four  hundred  francs  ! 
— ^he  smiles  as  he  runs  his  eye  down  the  items — 
items  that,  a fortnight  ago,  he  might  have  dis- 
puted, but  that  to  a future  millionaire  are  insig- 
nificant. He  compliments  Herr  Schmidt  upon  the 
moderate  terms  of  his  establishment.  It  is  neces- 
sary that  Mr.  Biron  run  over  to  Nice  for  six-and- 
thirty  hours — to  speak  candidly,  it  is  necessaiy 
that  Mr.  Biron  pay  a visit  to  the  Brothers  Ulrich, 
his  bankers.  Herr  Schmidt,  of  course,  will  allow 
him  to  remain  his  debtor  until  his  return  ? 

Herr  Schmidt,  although  the  most  prudent  of 
Prussians,  finds  himself  powerless  before  Le  Rev- 
erend’s airy  treatment  of  his  claims ; and,  in  the 
early  gray  of  the  November  morning,  a girlish 
face,  wet  with  tears,  is  bent  forth  from  an  upper 
window  of  the  Hotel  Paradis  to  watch  Mr.  Lau- 
rence Biron’s  departure.  . . . April  tears,  quickly 
shed,  quickly  dried.  Jet  Conyngham’s  love  is 
still  at  the  blossoming  stage,  when  to  talk  of  an 


BACCARAT. 


131 


absent  sweetheart  is,  to  a heart  of  nineteen,  only 
a degree  less  dear  than  his  presence.  And  Cora, 
the  one  human  being  to  whom  she  could  speak  of 
Biron,  will  arrive  in  Esterel  to-night.  Poor  Cora, 
with  the  narrow  horizon  of  Dulford  bounding  her 
desires,  the  unromantic  Rector  of  Dulford  for  the 
hero  of  her  life-drama  ! 

Nothing,  it  has  been  cynically  said,  succeeds 
like  success.  Biron  finds  the  axiom  verified  with- 
in an  hour  of  his  arrival  at  Nice.  A week  ago 
would  MM.  Ulrich  Freres  have  advanced  the 
Reverend  Laurence  Biron  twenty  pounds,  twenty 
pence,  upon  his  own  note  of  hand  ? I think  not. 
A week  ago  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  was 
only  the  money-borrowing,  impecunious,  black- 
coated  adventurer,  whom  MM.  Ulrich  Freres  have 
known,  to  their  cost,  for  years  ; fair-sounding 
promises  his  vouchers,  the  dim  prospect  of  one 
day  becoming  Lady  Austen’s  husband  his  most 
valid  security. 

With  his  altered  prospects  his  very  outward 
man  would  seem  to  have  changed.  As  he  walks 
into  the  bank  his  air  is  that  of  a merchant-prince. 
He  demands  an  interview  with  the  senior  partner 
as  coolly  as  though  his  balance  constituted  the 
mainstay  of  the  firm,  and  is  accommodated  with 
one  hundred  pounds  simply  in  exchange  for  his 
own  autograph — his  own  autograph,  and  the  deli- 
cately introduced  mention  of  Frederick  Conyng- 
ham’s  name. 


132  her  face  ok  her  lOkTONE? 


Before  the  new  year,  my  dear  Ulrich,  Mi. 
Conyngham  will  be  my  father-in-law.  My  en- 
gagement to  his  daughter  is  not  yet  formally  an- 
nounced, but  I know  that  I can  rely  uj^on  your 
discretion.  As  to  the  fortune  of  my  fiancee— 

The  fortune  of  Mademoiselle  Conyngham  ad- 
mits of  no  question,”  returns  the  complacent 
banker  ; “ Mr.  Conyngham’s  first  wife  was  an 
heiress — West  Indian  property — money  derived' 
from  sugar-plantations.  I v/as  a boy  at  the  time 
of  his  marriage,  but  I remember  the  circumstance 
well.  The  young  lady  to  whom  you  are  engaged 
will  have  a doAvry,  at  least,  of  forty  thousand 
pounds.” 

Always  that  ridiculous  legend  of  sugar-planta- 
tion and  of  a West  Indian  mother  ! Legend  or  no 
legend,  the  source  of  Jet’s  wealth  matters  little  to 
Ijaurence  Biron,  so  long  as  the  wealth  itself  be- 
comes his  own.  The  weight  of  his  hundred 
pounds,  all  in  solid  golden  rouleaux^  appears  to 
lilfn  a delightful  earnest  of  his  gilded  future.  He 
vralks  about  Hice,  seeing  the  familiar  shops  and 
streets  under  the  kind  of  glamour  of  an  opium- 
eater.  Huge  orange-and-blue  placards  are  adver- 
tising to  the  public  that  the  opera  will  open  for 
the  season  to-night.  The  name  of  Mademoiselle 
Rose  Pinson,  a pretty  fitgurante^  whom  Biron  re- 
members well  in  Paris,  is  among  the  corps  de 
ballet. 

He  wends  his  way  to  the  principal  Nice  flower- 


BACCARAT. 


133 


shop,  buys  the  costliest  bouquet  it  contains,  and 
has  the  gratification  of  flinging  it  that  night,  from 
his  old  place  in  the  stalls,  at  the  agile  feet  of 
Mademoiselle  Rose  ! Coming  out  of  the  theatre, 
the  notorious  Count  Zalfa — a too-close  gambling 
associate  of  other  days — lays  his  hand  on  Biron’s 
shoulder.  The  count  proposes  an  hour’s  adjourn- 
ment to  the  club  for  whist.  As  miladi  is  not  in 
Nice,  the  evenings  of  his  reverence  are,  of  course, 
at  his  own  disposal  ? Whist  means  baccarat ; the 
hour  lasts  till  daybreak  ; and  Jet’s  lover  loses — 
gold,  I O U’s — everything. 

“ The  terrible  eye  of  Morning  sees  him  beggared  as  he  stands ! ” 

Well,  as  he  travels  back  to  Esterel  in  the  course 
of  the  afternoon,  Mr.  Biron  consoles  himself  by 
recalling  the  adage  respecting  bad  luck  at  cards 
(curious  that  a man  who  looks  upon  conscience  as 
a myth,  upon  prayer  as  moral  delirium  tremens, 
should  still  cling  to  some  puerile,  pet  superstition, 
in  the  matter  of  hearts  and  diamonds  !).  To  have 
lost  may  prove  a better  omen  for  his  love-affairs 
than  to  have  won.  If  he  could  but  free  himself 
from  the  horrible  embarrassment  of  the  moment 
— for,  whatever  the  fate  of  Schmidt  and  secretary, 
his  debts  of  honor  cannot  be  slurred  over  like  a 
tradesman’s  bill.  It  has  been  decided  between 
himself  and  Jet  that  Mr.  Conyngham  shall  hear 
of  their  engagement  at  the  first  auspicious  moment 
after  Cora’s  arrival,  Mr,  Conyngham  may  prove 


134  JET;  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


a man  easy  to  deal  with  on  the  score  of  money,  a 
man  belonging  to  the  invaluable  lending-section 
of  the  human  race.  If  not — as  money  must  be 
had  and  at  once — why,  there  is  Lady  Austen. 
During  all  the  by-gone  years,  all  the  stormy  vicis- 
situdes of  their  friendship.  Lady  Austen  has  never 
once  drawn  back  from  helping  him  in  his  difficul- 
ties. And  when  he  is  married — ah,!  when  he  is 
married — he  will  taste  the  sweetness  of  repaying 
her  every  benefit  that  the  cruel  reverses  of  his  life 
have  forced  him  to  accept,  and  with  interest ! 

Absorbed  in  dreams  of  Jet  Conyngham — I 
mean  of  Jet  Conyngham’s  fortune,  and  of  the 
miserable  shifts  to  which  he  may  yet  be  put  ere 
he  handle  it — Mr.  Biron  finds  himself  nearing  the 
termination  of  his  journey.  The  sun  is  setting 
over  the  mountains  of  Les  Maures  as  the  train 
passes  by  Carnoules.  And  the  rose-flushed  peaks, 
the  tender,  opal  sky,  recall  to  him,  little  senti- 
mental though  he  be,  the  scene  among  the  fir- 
woods — his  girlish  sweetheart’s  first  blushing 
whisper  of  his  name,  the  first  contact  of  her  lips  ! 
He  is  not  in  love  as  Mark  Austen  was  in  love  or 
as  Jet  is;  but  he  likes  the  girl  to  the  utmost  point 
of  his  capacity  for  liking,  and  looks  forward,  with 
genuine  impatience,  to  the  moment  when  he  shall 
once  more  fold  her  in  his  arms. 

When  love  and  interest  are  inseparably,  vitally 
connected,  even  a thirty-six  hours’  absence  may  be 
fraught  with  peril. 


BACCARAT. 


135 


The  omnibus  from  the  Hotel  Paradis  awaits 
him  by  command  at  Salon,  the  little  station  five 
miles  from  Esterel,  at  which  passengers  from  the 
south  are  wont  to  stop  in  preference  to  making 
the  longer  circuit  by  Tamaris  and  the  junction. 
The  German  conductor  advances  to  greet  him, 
finger  on  cap.  Two  other  travelers  are  expected 
by  this  train  for  the  Hotel  Paradis.  Will  the 
gnadiger  Herr  have  the  complaisance  to  remain  a 
short  five  minutes  on  the  platform  while  their  lug- 
gage is  being  seen  to  ? Or  will  the  gnadiger  Herr 
take  his  place  at  once  in  the  omnibus  ? 

Biron  takes  his  place  mechanically,  his  thoughts 
still  of  Jet,  and  of  how  by  this  time  she  and  Cora 
will  begin  to  look  for  his  coming.  Mechanically 
he  listens  while  box  after  box,  malU  after  malle^ 
are  being  thrown  up,  with  many  a muttered  sacr^ 
from  drivers  and  railway  officials,  to  the  roof. 
Mechanically  he  watches  a couple  of  English- 
women— mistress,  it  would  seem,  and  maid — leave 
the  station. 

The  Englishwomen  advance.  He  hears  a voice 
that  he  would  recognize  at  the  nether  pole  disput- 
ing the  porter’s  demands  in  voluble  bad  French. 
He  catches  one  glimpse  of  a face.  Another  mo- 
ment, and  Lady  Austen — for  it  is  she — is  stand- 
ing on  the  step  of  the  omnibus — has  entered,  rec- 
ognized him. 
liaurence  I ” 


136  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

SUNSHINE,  FIRE,  AND  DEW. 

AM  not  clever  enough  for  him,”  says  Jet 
regretfully.  ‘‘  That  is  the  one  flaw  in  my  happi- 
ness. I know  that,  intellectually,  I am  not,  never 
shall  be,  upon  Mr.  Biron’s  level.” 

I am  sure  I wish  we  knew  that  Mr.  Biron  had 
a comfortable  income,”  answers  Cora  Conyngham. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  two  sisters  more 
startlingly  unlike  than  Frederick  Conyngham’s 
two  daughters  ; one  reason,  perhaps,  for  the  close- 
ness of  the  affection  that  knits  them  together. 

Jet,  as  we  have  seen,  has  something  of  the 
Juno  in  her  presence  : 

“A  daughter  of  the  gods  divinely  tall, 

And  most  divinely  fair.” 

Cora  is  short,  dark,  plump,  with  shining  black 
hair  curling  crisply  about  her  little  round  head  ; 
with  a pair  of  black,  shining  eyes  ; with  neat, 
regular,  inexpressive  features. 

J et  by  temperament  is  all  energy,  all  extremes 
— truest  mixture  conceivable  of  sunshine,  fire,  and 
dew;  rebels  in  spirit  (at  nineteen  years  old)  against 
the  thousand  small  meannesses  and  impostures  of 
artificial  life  ; would  see  things  for  herself,  rather 
than  learn  them  through  the  established  chapter 
verse  of  self-satisfied  conventiouality. 


SUNSHINE,  FIRE,  AND  DEW. 


137 


Cora  is  superficial,  indolent ; absolutely  with- 
out desire  to  pierce  beneath  the  crust  of  things. 
She  expects  no  more  from  life  than  that  she,  Cora 
Conyngham,  should  never  be  called  upon  to  rise 
early,  or  walk  far,  or  experience  any  acute  bodily 
pain.  Her  ambition  is  bounded  by  a brougham 
on  C-springs  ; well  - dressed  meats  served  with 
punctuality  ; a comfortable  seat  in  church  ; a 
lady’s-maid  who  understands  her  business  ; and  a 
regular  and  unfailing  supply  of  three-volume  nov- 
els. 

Of  Jet’s  actions  you  never  can  feel  certain  be- 
forehand. Just  as  in  certain  minerals  there  ex- 
ists, fast  locked  up,  a potency  of  light  which  it 
needs  but  a sudden  access  of  warmth  to  set  free, 
so,  in  Jet  Conyngham,  you  feel  that  there  are  po- 
tentialities for  good  or  for  evil  which  any  accident 
of  the  twenty-four  hours  may  bring  into  action. 

Upon  Cora  you  can  calculate  as  upon  an  alma- 
nac. Her  character  should  be  a standing  satisfac- 
tion to  the  class  of  advanced  thinkers  who  know 
all  about  the  ultimate  elements  of  human  nature 
— moral  chemists  who,  reducing  passion  and  mo- 
tive to  formula,  can  predicate  how  many  atoms  of 
intellectual  oxygen  and  hydrogen  will  go  to  form 
a generous  impulse  or  an  unreasoning  hatred. 
Given  certain  circumstances,  and  you  can  be  as 
sure  of  her  conduct — discreet,  sensible,  trouble- 
avoiding conduct,  at  all  times — as  you  can  of  aii 
?inswer  in  algebra* 


138  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


If  Jet  be  a living  paradox,  Cora  is  an  embodied 
commonplace. 

Of  course,  until  I see  Mr.  Biron,  I can  give 
no  opinion  about  his  fascinations.  When  I re- 
member how  delicately  Adolphus  acted,  I must 
say  I think  it  very  odd  that  he  should  not  at  once 
have  spoken  to  papa  about  money — very.” 

‘^He  has  mentioned  money  over  and  over 
again!”  cries  Jet,  half  petulantly;  and  each 
time  I have  let  him  know  that  I held  the  subject 
in  contempt.  As  if  it  could  matter  whether  a 
man  gifted  like  Laurence  were  rich  or  poor  I ” 

‘‘It  matters  that  he  should  have  some  means 
of  supporting  a wife.  Mr.  Biron  has  no  duty,  it 
seems,  and  no  pupils,  and  no  private  fortune. 
How  does  Mr.  Biron  propose  to  live  ? ” 

The  two  girls  are  waiting  together  in  the  twi- 
light for  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron’s  coming. 
A cheery  fire  of  olive-wood  and  fir-cones  burns  on 
the  hearth  ; the  remains  of  afternoon  tea  are  on 
the  table. 

Before  Cora’s  arrival.  Jet,  at  this  hour,  loved 
to  sit  by  the  open  window,  and,  standing  within 
the  embrasure  of  her  balcony,  to  watch  night 
gather  upon  the  distant  mountains,  and  build  cas- 
tles of  her  own  among  the  clouds.  Cora  does  not 
care  about  mountains — when  you  have  looked  at 
them  once.  To  tell  the  truth,  Cora  Conyngham 
cares  sparingly  for  anything  in  external  Nature. 
She  has  always,  in  Noyember,  seen  curtains  drawn, 


SFNSHINE,  FIRE,  AND  DEW. 


139 


fires  lit,  and  tea  served  at  a given  hour  of  the  af- 
ternoon, and  likes  to  see  it  so. 

Forty  years  hence,  if  she  live  as  long,  you  may 
he  sure  that  Cora,  on  the  anniversary  of  this  day, 
will  be  sitting  before  a fire  somewhere  (probably 
in  Dulford  rectory)  ; a teacup  in  her  little,  plump, 
ringed  hand  ; her  feet  raised  to  the  exact  level  of 
comfort  on  a footstool ; opinions  of  incomparable 
reason,  narrowness,  and  orthodoxy,  proceeding 
from  her  lips. 

“ One  hears  always  that  same  tune,”  exclaims 
Jet.  She  is  walking  with  impatient  steps  about 
the  room  ; now  stopping  at  Cora’s  side,  now  rush- 
ing to  the  window  as  some  sound,  or  fancied  sound, 
of  wheels  comes  along  the  Marseilles  road.  Why 
must  a man  have  enough  to  support  a wife  ? Can- 
not a wife  support  herself  ? I suppose  I should 
have  some  means  of  getting  bread  if  I remained 
unmarried.  What  papa  pays  Aunt  Gwendoline, 
for  instance,  would  buy  a good  deal  more  than 
bread.  Must  I necessarily  become  a dead,  help- 
less weight  upon  the  unfortunate  man  who  mar- 
ries me  ? ” 

Unfortunate  ? Without  having  seen  him,  I 
feel  certain  that  Mr.  Laurence  Biron  is  a much 
luckier  man  than  he  deserves.” 

‘‘  Just  as  I feel  certain  that  you  are  a little 
goose,  Cora.  We  will  leave  off  talking  of  Lau- 
rence before  I lose  my  temper.  Speak  to  him — 
that  is  all  I ask.  Speak  to  him,  hear  his  voice. 


140  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

watcli  his  face,  and  see  what  will  become  of  all 
your  prejudices.” 

thought  we  were  to  leave  off  talking  of 
him,  Jet  ?” 

^^So  we  are,  my  dear.  We  will  confine  our- 
selves to  subjects  on  which  there  can  be  no  differ- 
ence of  opinion. — Dollikins  has  had  toothache 
again,  you  say  ? ” 

I must  explain  to  the  reader  that  ^‘Dollikins” 
is  a pet  name  bestowed  by  Jet  on  Cora  Conyng- 
ham’s  betrothed — a name  at  which  neither  Cora 
nor  the  gentleman  himself  has  ever  taken  umbrage. 

“Yes.  For  two  nights  and  days  he  scarcely 
rested  an  hour,  and  you  see  Adolphus  will  not  take 
chloral  on  principle.” 

“ Principle  ? By  what  process  of  circumlocu- 
tion can  even  Dollikins  drag  principle  into  chloral- 
taking ? ” 

“Well,  one  of  his  aunts  died  under  the  influ- 
ence of  chloroform,  and  Adolphus  cannot  feel 
sure  that  the  predisposition  may  not  be  in  the 
family.” 

“ And  what  if  it  is  ? ” 

“Jet!” 

“If  Dollikins  is  so  perfectly  good  a young 
man,  so  unworldly,  so  well  prepared  for  heaven, 
why  should  he  fear  death,  chloral,  or  a thunder- 
storm, or  the  gout  at  seventy  ? To  a really  pious 
mind,  how  can  the  when  and  the  where  signify?” 
^^We  tried  laudanum  externally,”  says  Cora, 


SUNSHINE,  EIRE,  AND  DEW. 


141 


who  never  enters  upon  abstract  or  casuistic  ques- 
tions, and  camphorated  brandy,  and  hot  flannels. 
Nothing  did  him  any  good.” 

Poor,  poor  Dollikins ! If  you  continue  in 
this  affecting  strain  I shall  weep,  Cora.  I warn 
you.” 

So  then  we  drove  into  Exeter,  and  he  had  it 
out.  Mr.  Pinsum  said  that  there  were  two  more 
that  ought  to  come  out,  but  he  had  not  the  cour- 
age.” 

‘‘  Who  ? Dollikins,  or  Mr.  Pinsum  ? ” 

“Adolphus.  You  see  it  was  his  duty  to  think 
of  others.  Next  day  was  Sunday.  It  would  not 
have  done  for  him  to  get  up  in  the  pulpit  with  a 
swelled  face.” 

“I  understand.  The  next  time  I am  a coward 
I shall  be  so — from  a sense  of  duty.  Cora,  dear,” 
after  a minute’s  pause,  “now  that  I have  got  you 
with  me,  there  is  not  one  thing  for  me  to  wish  for 
in  the  world.  Is  not  the  south  a paradise  ? ” 

“I  beg  your  pardon.  Jet.” 

During  that  minute’s  pause  Cora  Conyngham’s 
head  has  begun  to  nod. 

“Does  not  the  south  go  beyond  anything  that 
you  had  dreamed  of  ? ” 

“ I never  dreamed  about  it  at  all.  I dream  so 
little,”  answers  Cora. 

“ The  mountains,  and  sea,  and  sky,  seem  made 
of  larger  materials  than  in  England.  One  has 
more  background  for  one’s  happiness.  Ah ! you 


142  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


must  wait  until  you  see  my  ixora  (faded  now, 
alas  !),  and  the  fir-forests,  and  the  palms.” 

We  saw  some  nice  palms  at  Kew  last  year,” 
says  Cora,  amiably.  Don’t  you  remember?  It 
was  the  afternoon  the  princess  was  there.  She 
wore  a blue  bonnet.” 

I have  not  passed  one  empty  day  since  I left 
Avignon.  Every  hour,  every  minute,  has  seemed 
fuller  than  it  could  hold  of  enjoyment.” 

It  must  have  been  a great  trial  not  to  have 
Porter.  I cannot  think  how  you  have  managed  to 
dress  your  own  hair.” 

Good  practice  for  the  future,”  cries  J et,  gay- 
ly.  ‘‘I  am  not  likely  to  be  burdened  with  fine 
ladies  like  Porter  in  the  days  to  come — as  well 
learn  the  use  of  my  own  ten  fingers  now. — ^Yes, 
the  sky  here  must  certainly  be  made  of  different 
material  from  what  it  is  on  the  borders  of  Ex- 
more.  I should  say,  Cora,  that  it  rains  more  at 
Dulf ord  than  at  any  place  in  the  universe  ? ” 

‘^We  get  forty  more  rainy  days  in  the  year 
than  they  do  at  Greenwich.  Adolphus  has  calcu- 
lated it  all,”  says  Cora,  with  a certain  pride.  “I 
am  not  sure  I don’t  like  rainy  weather  best,”  she 
adds,  turning  over  the  diamonds  upon  her  fingers. 

You  get  through  so  much  on  a rainy  day.” 

^^Get  through — what?  More  worsted-work, 
more  novels,  or  more  eating  and  drinking  ? When 
I think  of  the  winters  I have  ^got  through’  in 
Dulford— ” 


SUNSHINE,  FIRE,  AND  DEW. 


143 


It  seems  to  me  we  were  very  contented  last 
winter.  Jet.  There  were  five  Christmas-parties, 
and  the  practisings  for  Easter,  and — ” 

And  the  Reverend  Adolphus  Myers’s  visits. 
Naturally,  the  time  was  golden  for  some  people.” 

‘^Adolphus  used  to  call  most  days,  certainly. 
So  did  Mark  Austen.” 

The  blood  leaps  into  Jet’s  face.  Absorbed 
though  she  may  be  in  her  wild,  unreasoning  love 
for  Laurence  Biron,  she  cannot  hear  young  Mark’s 
name  without  a certain  conscience-struck  thrill  of 
regret. 

“We  used  to  think.  Aunt  Gwendoline  and  I, 
that  Mark  Austen  and  you  did  not  dislike  each 
other.  But  when  the  poor  fellow  came  back, 
looking  such  a spectre,  after  his  journey  to  Folke- 
stone, one  saw,  of  course,  it  was  all  over.  He  has 
parsed  the  most  splendid  examination — have  you 
heard  ? ” 

“ Through  whom  but  you  should  I hear  any- 
thing of  Mark  Austen  ? ” 

“ Through  Mr.  Biron,  naturally.  Lady  Austen 
and  Mr.  Biron  are  friends,  you  say  ? ” 

“ I do  not  believe  there  is  over-much  love  be- 
tween miladi  and  her  son,”  says  Jet,  a little  con- 
fusedly. “ Mark  Austen  has  such  a terrible  tem- 
per ! Do  you  remember,  even  with  us,  how  he 
used  to  contrive  to  pick  quarrels  ? ” 

“ Mark  Austen  will  make  his  way  in  the  world, 
temper  or  no  temper.  Adolphus  says  he  took  the 


144  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


highest  number  of  marks  possible  in  physical  sci- 
ence ; and  as  to  his  mixed  mathematics — ” 

I hear  wheels  ! ” exclaims  Jet,  flying,  with  a 
couple  of  bounds,  across  the  room.  “Quick, 
Cora  ! quick  ! Oh,  never  mind  looks  !” — this,  as 
Cora  is  preparing  to  adjust  her  small  person  with 
mechanical  precision  before  the  glass.  “If  we 
make  haste,  we  shall  reach  the  portico  before  the 
omnibus  arrives.  A wrap  ? Child,  what  do  wraps 
matter  ? Here,  take  this  shawl.  I am  never  cold. 
I — I — ah,  Cora,  if  you  should  not  like  each  other, 
after  all ! ” 

Jet’s  face  is  white  with  excitement.  She  flies 
along  the  corridor,  then  down  the  central  stair- 
case of  the  hotel,  at  a speed  with  which  Cora, 
panting  under  such  unwonted  exertion,  can  scarce- 
ly keep  pace  ; finally,  the  entrance-door  of  the  ho- 
tel reached,  she  discovers  that  the  wheels  were 
those  of  a country  patache,  joggling  leisurely 
forth,  with  its  load  of  country-people,  from  the 
town  of  Esterel. 

“ Which  will  just  give  us  time  to  recover  our 
breath  decorously.”  And,  taking  Cora’s  hand. 
Jet  retreats  behind  a thick  range  of  oranges,  lem- 
ons, and  oleanders,  which  screens  the  left  side  of 
the  portico.  “ Here  Laurence  need  not  see  us  at 
all,  unless  we  choose  it,  and  you  will  be  able  to 
form  your  first  opinion  of  him  without  let  or  hin- 
derance.” 

The  whole  entrance  of  the  Paradis,  including 


StJNSHIXE,  FIRE,  AND  DEW. 


145 


a short  space  of  terrace  on  either  side,  is  roofed 
in  by  glass.  Statues — each  supporting  a lamp,  and 
to  whose  white  limbs  the  autumnal  roses  cling — 
are  grouped  around.  Tall,  flowering  grasses,  aloes, 
and  eucalyptus,  grow  in  profusion  in  the  outer 
court.  ISTotwjthstanding  the  lateness  of  the  hour, 
several  of  the  more  inveterate  hotel-idlers  linger 
still  upon  the  scene.  Miss  Wylie,  properly  at- 
tended by  her  maid,  is  “ tatting,”  a yellow-backed 
novel  on  her  knee,  under  one  of  the  gaslights. 
The  Scottish  widow,  her  eyelids  downcast,  a heap 
of  good,  little,  sad-covered  books  beside  her,  oc- 
cupies an  immediately  opposite  corner.  Major 
Brett  trots  to  and  fro,  with  a self-important  air  of 
expectancy,  upon  the  steps. 

Again  there  is  the  sound  of  approaching 
wheels  ; this  time,  for  certain,  along  the  Marseilles 
road.  Jet  feels  herself  get  hot  and  cold  by  turns. 
Her  breath  comes  short  ; she  steals  a trembling 
hand  under  Cora’s  arm  for  support.  In  another 
minute  the  omnibus,  piled,  mountain-high,  with 
luggage,  rattles  noisily  down  the  street,  then 
swings,  with  one  prodigious  jerk,  into  the  court- 
yard of  the  hotel. 

The  driver  cracks  his  whip.  Schmidt,  secre- 
tary, and  waiters,  rush  out  eagerly  from  the  house. 
Major  Brett,  with  his  crab-like  little  run,  moves 
somewhat  aside,  inclined,  for  the  moment,  prob- 
ably, to  play  the  part  of  spectator,  rather  than 
that  of  actor,  in  the  comedy.  The  hall-porter 
10 


146  JBT:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

opens  the  door  of  the  omnibus,  and  on  the  instant 
descends  a female,  plain  of  feature,  timid  as  to 
the  .exhibition  of  ankles,  and  who  exchanges  a fur- 
tive hand-shake  with  Karl,  the  good-looking  sec- 
ond waiter  of  the  Paradis — an  abigail,  evidently. 
To  her  are  handed  down  shawls,  bags,  baskets, 
flowers,  and  smelling-bottles,  from  some  person  or 
persons,  still  in  the  interior  of  the  vehicle. 

And  then  steps  forth — miladi  ! 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

FIFINE. 

Miladi  ! I give  to  miladi  well-komnL!  ” cries 
Herr  Schmidt,  iri  his  broken  English,  as  he  rushes 
up  to  support  Lady  Austen’s  fingers  with  his  arm. 

Jet  Conyngham  bends  eagerly  forward,  a pre- 
sentiment nearly  akin  to  terror  contracting  her 
heart. 

Bonsoir,  M.  le  Proprietaire,”  begins  miladi, 
in  a harsh,  jarring,  falsetto  voice  ; and,  as  she 
speaks,  Avith  a manner,  I will  not  say  foreign,  but 
un-English,  she  gives  a little  imperial  wave  of  her 
hand  to  the  assembled  crowd  of  servants. — Ach, 
Karl,  mein  Freund  ” — in  affected  German  accents 
— wie  geht  es  ? — My  suite,  I trust,  is  ready  for 
me,  Mr.  Secretary?  Engage  par  M.  le  Major. 
Exactly  so.  And  I shall  not  have  to  wait  for  din- 


FIFINE. 


14? 


ner  ? pronto  il  pranzo  ? — Laurence  ” (looking 
back  across  her  shoulder  into  the  omnibus),  will 
you  have  the  goodness  to  search  upon  the  floor  of 
the  voiture  ? I miss  one  of  my  gloves.  And  I 
believe  you  will  find  the  umbrellas  standing  in  the 
farther  corner.” 

Laurence  ! 

Jet  Conyngham’s  spirit  sinks  to  zero. 

What ! you  do  not  see  my  glove  ? ” — thus 
miladi,  petulantly,  when  another  half -minute  has 
elapsed.  May  I ask  you  to  come  out,  and  I will 
search  myself? — ^Vallance  look,  do  you  say?  Oh, 
dear,  no — Vallance  has  her  arms  full.” 

The  Reverend  Laurence  Biron,  upon  this, 
makes  his  appearance,  horribly  pale — or  so  Jet 
imagines — and  with  some  subtile  change  in  his 
whole  demeanor  that  it  would  be  hard  to  define. 

‘‘  I really  do  not  think  the  glove  can  be  there — ” 
he  is  beginning. 

The  glove  is  there  ! ” says  miladi,  tartly. 

Oh,  the  voice  of  this  woman  ! Oh,  her  air  of 
command  ! J et  Conyngham  glances  round  at  the 
knot  of  serving-people,  and  detects  a barely-sup- 
pressed  smile  upon  the  face  of  each. 

“ Take  my  cloud  ! ” (Mr.  Biron  disappears 
beneath  yards  and  yards  of  diaphanous  knitted 
scarlet.)  “ Hold  Fifine  ! ” (A  ball  of  snapping 
white  wool  is  deposited  in  Mr.  Biron’s  arms.)  “ I 
will  search  myself  ! ” 

But  the  proprietor,  secretary,  the  head- waiter, 


148  JET:  ITER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


the  subordinates,  all  contest  for  the  honor  of  find- 
ing miladi’s  glove. 

While  they  are  thus  engaged,  Biron  standing 
helpless  with  the  shawl  and  lap-dog,  miladi  giv- 
ing a series  of  impatient  stamps  upon  the  pave- 
ment, little  Major  Brett  comes  forward  with  a 
run. 

Lady  Austen,  a thousand  welcomes  to  the 
Paradis  ! You  received  my  last  two  telegrams,  I 
hope?” 

So  it  is  Lady  Austen,”  whispers  Jet.  I shall 
never  wonder  again  at  Mark’s  temper.” 

‘^And  it  is  Mr.  Biron.  Jet,  why  does  Lady 
Austen  call  him  by  his  Christian  name  ? ” 

Jet  returns  no  answer. 

You  do  not  know  if  my  son  is  in  Esterel,  M. 
le  Secretaire  ? ” goes  on  miladi,  pointedly  turning 
her  back  upon  Laurence  Biron.  He  was  to  have 
met  me  here  by  appointment — indeed,  he  should 
have  arrived  an  hour  ago,  by  the  afternoon  train 
from  Marseilles.” 

No,  the  secretary  has  not  had  the  distinguished 
honor  of  receiving  miladi’s  son.  But  there  is  yet 
the  half -past  seven  Paris  express  ; or  it  is  possible 
M.  Austen  may  have  descended  at  some  other  hotel 
in  the  town. 

He  has  just  passed  the  most  glorious  exami- 
nation, Major  Brett — the  most  glorious  examina- 
tion, has  my  son.  India  Civil  Service — Commis- 
sioners of  Roads  and  Forests.  Mark  came  out 


FIFINE. 


149 


first  of  ninety.  I telegraphed  two  days  ago  invit- 
ing him  to  join  me  in  the  south  before  proceeding 
to  Germany,  where  he  will  have  to  prosecute  his 
studies  for  a year  or  more.” 

Major  Brett  is  profuse  in  good  wishes  and  con- 
gratulations. 

Talent ! nothing  like  it  nowadays.  Talent  is 
hereditary,  my  dear  lady.  All  your  really  clever 
fellows  have  had  gifted  mothers.” 

Biron  stands,  moodily  submitting  to  his  bur- 
den, digesting,  as  best  he  may,  the  tidings  that 
Lady  Austen,  with  intentional  abruptness,  has 
conveyed  to  him. 

For  her  to  hold  forth  the  olive-branch  to  young 
Mark  is,  Mr.  Biron  knows,  a covert  declaration  of 
war  against  himself. 

How  soon  shall  the  rupture  become  open  ? 

How  much  has  she  heard  of  the  truth  respect- 
ing Jet  Cony  ngham? 

What  deadliest  reprisals  may  she  not  at  this 
moment  have  on  hand  ? 

Fifine,  ma  mie,  ma  moutonne  ! ” says  miladi, 
taking  the  dog  from  Biron’s  arm  as  though  he 
were  a lackey.  We  are  tired  after  our  journey, 
— n’est-ce  pas,  ma  bibiche? — and  must  have  our 
tea. — You  would  not  believe,  major,  how  the  dear 
creature  looks  to  me  for  her  tea  when  she  is  tired. 
Alas  ! separated  as  circumstances  have  forced  me 
to  be  from  my  son,  Penfant  cheri  de  mon  coeur,  I 
find  the  affection  even  of  a dumb  creature  pre- 


150  JET;  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


cious. — Laurence,  I shall  be  obliged  by  your  seeing 
that  my  baggage  is  right — fourteen  large  pieces, 
two  boxes  belonging  to  Vallance,  and  the  differ- 
ent wraps. — Ma  mignonne,  mon  amour,  she  is  glad 
to  get  back  to  her  own,  own  mistress  ! ” 

And,  caressing  the  dog,  chattering,  gesticulat- 
ing, coquetting,  miladi  trips,  with  girlish  activity, 
up  the  stairs — little  Major  Brett  by  her  side; 
Schmidt,  secretary,  waiters,  lady’s-maid,  in  attend- 
ance. 

Biron  looks  after  her  for  a moment  as  if  uncer- 
tain whether  to  remain  or  follow.  Then  he  flings 
down  the  shawl  upon  one  of  the  heaps  of  luggage 
close  at  hand,  and  makes  his  way  off,  by  a side- 
door,  into  the  house. 

The  Misses  Conyngham  linger  still  in  their 
place  of  concealment. 

“ And  so  Mark  is  coming  to  Esterel ! ” observes 
Cora.  Aunt  Gwendoline  was  right.  Aunt  Gwen 
said  she  knew  poor  Mark  would  follow — ” 

^‘What — what  do  you  think  of  Laurence?” 
interrupts  Jet,  eagerly. 

But  her  voice  is  sobered. 

The  realities  of  the  last  three  minutes  have 
swept  half  the  glory  from  her  dreams,  half  the 
halo  of  romance  from  Mr.  Laurence  Biron. 

I think  he  seems  well  accustomed  to  carrying 
Lady  Austen’s  lap-dog,”  is  Cora’s  answer. 


A WOMAN-HATER’S  WOES. 


151 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A womais'-hater’s  woes. 

Precisely  at  this  moment,  in  the  humblest 
Proven9al  iun  of  the  old  town,  miladi’s  enfant 
cheri  is  sitting  down  to  dinner ; one  other  Eng- 
lishman— the  melancholy-looking  misogynist  whom 
we  last  saw  at  Miss  Wylie’s  side  in  the  Paradis — 
his  companion. 

Xo  luxurious,  German-kept  hotels  for  young 
Mark  ! Accustomed,  for  years,  to  shape  his  way 
of  life  in  accordance  with  self-imposed  poverty, 
Mark  Austen,  from  habit  and  taste  alike,  shuns 
all  the  fine-gentleman  surroundings  amid  which 
he  was  reared  as  a child. 

Especially  are  the  gilt-and- white,  mirror-lined 
salons  of  monster  hotels  flavored  by  recollections 
that  he  abhors. 

It  was  in  mirror-lined  salons  that,  dressed  in 
velvet  and  point-lace,  his  yellow  curls  hanging 
about  his  shoulders,  he  was  his  mother’s  companion 
as  long  as  he  remained  at  a picturesque  age,  and 
could  make  his  exits  and  his  entrances  along  with 
the  Fifine  of  the  minute — an  accessory,  like  a be- 
coming curtain  or  bouquet  of  bright  flowers,  to 
the  well-painted  picture,  held  up  for  the  world’s 
admiration,  of  Lady  Austen  herself. 

It  was  in  mirror-lined  salons  that,  as  a lad, 


152  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUlsE? 

keenly  alive  to  the  humiliation  of  his  position,  he 
was  forced  to  make  Mr.  Laurence  Biron’s  acquaint- 
ance, to  look  upon  him  as  his  future  step-father — 
to  be  civil  to  him  ! 

I repeat,  no  luxurious,  German-kept  hotel  for 
Mark  ! His  mother’s  telegram  bade  him  join  her 
at  the  Paradis  on  his  arrival  in  Esterel,  and  he 
can  forecast  pretty  accurately  the  amount  of  stuc- 
co and  veneer,  of  Barmacidical  repasts,  and  ex- 
orbitant charges,  that  would  await  him  there. 
When  he  has  received  some  explanation  of  this 
unlooked-for  summons,  knows  upon  what  ground, 
after  years  of  cruel  estrangement,  he  stands,  it  is 
possible  that  he  and  his  mother  may  stay  under 
the  same  roof  once  more.  Till  then — 

Till  then  Mark  descends  and  orders  his  dinner 
at  the  Petit  St.- Joseph — one  of  the  quaint  old 
French  inns  where  travelers  may  count  upon  find- 
ing flagged  floors,  coarse  table-linen,  a master  who 
also  acts  as  chef  and  waiter,  excellent  cooking, 
and  civility.  When  will  English  people  learn  to 
do  their  traveling  with  brains,  sir  ? ” When, 
eschewing  crimson  velvet,  retinues  of  servants, 
gilt,  ormolu,  and  starvation,  will  they  seek  homely 
comfort  in  the  Petits  St. -Josephs  of  the  countries 
through  which  they  pass  ? 

Well,  during  the  first  half  of  the  meal  talk 
languishes.  The  misogynist  seems  wrapped  in 
gloomy  reveries — possibly  of  Miss  Wylie,  and  of 
the  dangers  from  which  he  has  newly  escaped. 


A WOMAN-HATER’S  WOES. 


153 


Mark’s  mind  is  filled  with  eager  speculations  as  to 
the  future — speculations  amid  which  his  chance  of 
again  coming  across  Jet  Conyngham  holds  a fore- 
most place.  By  the  time,  however,  that  they  get 
to  an  excellently-roasted  poulet  de  Bresse^  Dr. 
Oldham  begins  to  thaw.  Over  dessert  and  a well- 
kept  bottle  of  burgundy,  he  is  expansive — young 
Mark  listening,  carelessly,  as  a man  may  listen  to 
the  idle  tongue  of  a bell  which  to-morrow  shall 
toll  a death-knell  over  all  the  human  happiness  he 
possesses. 

I have  spent  the  last  two  winters  in  Algeria, 
sir,  and  got  on  pretty  well  there.  Found  an  hotel 
ladies  did  not  frequent.  There  was  the  secret.” 
The  doctor  takes  off  his  spectacles,  and  gazes  with 
solemn,  short-sighted  eyes  at  the  rudely-daubed 
frescoes  of  saints  and  martyrs  that  adorn  the  white- 
washed walls.  “This  winter  Clarkson  thought 
the  climate  of  Esterel  might  do  for  me,  and  since 
the  end  of  October,  four  horrible  weeks,  I have 
endured  existence  at  the  Hotel  Paradis.  You 
know  the  place  ? ” 

“I  know  the  type  of  place,”  replies  Mark. 
“All  hotels  of  that  size  and  price  are  the 
same.” 

“For  a man  traveling  with  relations,  protected 
by  his  own  party,  it  might  be  different.  I am 
alone.  Why  do  capitalists  not  build  special  hotels 
for  solitary  and  unprotected  men?  Following 
some  detestable  rule  of  the  establishment,  they 


154  JET;  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


placed  a lady  at  my  right  hand  for  breakfast, 
lunch,  and  dinner.  At  first  my  neighbor  was  a 
good  old  French  mere  de  families  who  ate  her  food 
in  silence,  and  allowed  me  to  do  the  same.  This 
respectable  w^oman,  however,  left,  and  was  suc- 
ceeded ” — he  gives  an  involuntary  shudder  at  the 
remembrance  — ‘^was  succeeded  by  an  English 
person,  with  curls,  with  high  spirits,  with  ridicu- 
lous infantine  affectations,  and  who  talked  ! ” 

The  poor  little  woman-hater  is  solemnly,  tragi- 
cally in  earnest.  He  passes  his  handkerchief  over 
his  forehead,  puts  on  his  spectacles  again,  and, 
filling  his  glass  to  the  brim  with  burgundy,  pro- 
ceeds : 

At  first  I humored  her,  weakly  thinking  that 
she  must,  perforce,  talk  herself  out — that  three  or 
four  days  would  see  the  evil  abate.  Sir,  she  got 
worse  ! She  got  intolerable,  sir  ! Offered  me  to 
look  over  her  journal — me  to  look  over  the  record 
of  any  woman’s  follies  ! Asked  if  I copied  music, 
or  would  act  showman  at  wax- works,  or  help  to  or- 
ganize a lawn-tennis  club.  I changed  my  place  at 
table.  She  changed  hers.  I went  dov/n  by  the 
door.  She  went  there,  too.  After  dinner  she 
would  follow  me  about  the  salon  with  a gobang- 
board.  I played,  to  avoid  talking.  Then  I talked, 
to  avoid  playing.  My  meals,  my  evenings,  alike 
were  made  a terror  to  me.  I believe  a fortnight 
more  of  it  would  have  driven  me  to  suicide — on 
my  soul,  I do  I ” 


A WOMAN-HATER’S  WOES. 


155 


But  you  have  found  courage  to  break  away 
from  this  siren  at  last  ? ” says  Mark  Austen. 

‘^Yes.  I received  an  invitation  yesterday  to 
an  afternoon-tea  with  music,  and  I packed  my 
portmanteau  and  fled.  Before  I left  the  Paradis 
I heard  they  were  going  to  get  up  dances — ^ week- 
ly dances’  (’twas  she  who  told  me),  ^at  which 
gentlemen  would  be  so  much  wanted  ! ’ If  I am 
found  out  here  I shall  have  no  alternative  but 
again  to  pack  my  portmanteau  and  move  on.  I 
know  a little  travelers’  inn,  outside  Bordighera,  to 
which  ladies  do  not  go.  I believe  I might  feel 
safe  there.” 

Your  first  suggestion  should  be  carried  out,” 
says  Mark,  not  without  a smile.  Hotels  for  the 
unprotected  bachelor  would  answer,  as  a mere 
commercial  speculation.” 

Of  course,  there  are  men  who  appreciate  pet- 
ticoat tyranny,  invalids  who  find  the  bore  of  ill- 
ness lessened  by  hourly  attentions,  sympathies, 
consolations,  and  the  like.  Now,  there  is  an  in- 
valid, a malade  imaginaire^  staying  at  the  Hotel 
Paradis— what  is  his  name  ? Carruthers,  Carring- 
ton, Conyngham — that  is  it,  Conyngham.  An  in- 
valid, with  a daughter,  handsome,  yellow-haired 
girl,  who  has  thrown  herself  away  upon  the  Rev- 
erend Laurence  Biron.  Well,  sir,  this  Mr.  Conyng- 
ham— ” 

The  doctor  branches  forth  into  stories  about 
the  Scottish  widow  and  her  ministrations,  stories 


156  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

about  good  little  books,  downcast  eyelids,  and  wa- 
ter-gruel. And  Mark,  with  his  heart  on  fire,  lis- 
tens in  silence  ! A minute  later,  ‘‘  I believe  you 
mentioned  the  name  of  Laurence  Biron  ? ” he  ob- 
serves, quietly.  Is  Laurence  Biron  staying  at  the 
Hotel  Paradis  ? ” 

His  manner  is  reserved,  his  tone  indifferent  ; 
but,  as  he  speaks,  Mark  Austen  rises  from  the  ta- 
ble— he  stands,  his  face  in  shadow,  and  gazes  down 
into  the  flames  that  dart  and  crackle  from  the  logs 
of  pine-wood  on  the  hearth. 

A handsome,  yellow-haired  girl  who  has  thrown 
herself  away  upon  Laurence  Biron.  . . . Ay,  but 
there  must  be  some  mistake  ! it  is  not — not  Jet’s 
name  that  has  thus  become  common  on  men’s 
tongues  ! Fate,  in  its  mood  of  sharpest  irony,  can 
never  have  decreed  that  Laurence  Biron,  the  man 
who,  from  another  cause,  has  poisoned  his  whole 
young  life,  should  now  be  his  successful  rival 
with  the  woman  he  loves  ! 

The  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  is  at  the  Para- 
dis ; lady-killer-in-chief  of  the  establishment.  A 
friend  of  yours,  did  you  say?” 

On  the  contrary,”  answers  Mark  ; ‘‘  I know 
his  name.  I do  not  know  Mr.  Biron  personally.” 

This  is  strictly  true.  Were  young  Mark  to 
meet  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  on  the  pave- 
ment in  Paris,  London,  Florence,  he  would  not 
lift  his  hat  to  him. 

^^Tou  will  soon  know  him,  by  sight,  at  least, 


A WOMAK-HATER’S  woes.  I5t 

if  you  make  any  stay  in  Esterel.  The  Reverend 
Laurence  Biron  does  not  hide  his  light  under  a 
bushel.  Equally,  as  a matter  of  course,  your  eyes 
will  become  familiar  with  the  charms  of  Miss  Jet 
Conyngham.” 

Mark  turns  round  with  a swing.  He  glares 
fiercely  down  on  the  poor  doctor,  innocently  peal- 
ing his  walnuts,  and  babbling,  as  men  with  some- 
what weak  heads  are  apt  to  do,  under  the  influence 
of  strong  wine. 

“The  pair  may  be  seen  together,  morning, 
noon,  and  night,  and  at  all  times,  untroubled  by 
a chaperon.  Mr.  Conyngham  is  too  taken  up  with 
sentimental  friendship  and  fancied  illness  to  look 
after  his  daughter — indeed,  as  far  as  that  goes,  I 
dare  say,  like  most  daughters  of  the  period,  she  is 
pretty  well  able  to  take  care  of  herself — ” 

“And  you  intend  to  hint,  I assume,”  inter- 
rupts Mark  Austen,  under  his  breath,  “ that  Mr. 
Biron  and — and  Miss  Conyngham — are  lovers — 
engaged  to  be  married  ? ” 

Dr.  Oldham  hesitates. 

“ The  people  at  the  Hotel  Paradis  are  all  of 
them  strangers  to  you  ? ” he  asks,  a little  uncer- 
tainly. 

“ Strangers  ? Yes,  of  course.  Strangers^''  Mark 
replies,  with  moody  emphasis. 

“ Then  I am  safe  in  telling  you  what  I know 
to  be  fact  as  regards  Mr.  Laurence  Biron’s  pros- 
pects. I do  not  like  the  man,  you  understand. 


158  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNES 

Worst  pattern  of  parson  I ever  came  across.  But 
that  is  a matter  of  personal  taste.  Young  ladies 
do  like  him.  Miss  Jet  Conyngham  especially,  and 
he — likes  the  thought  of  Miss  Jet  Conyngham’s 
forty  thousand  pounds  ! That  is  about  the  state 
of  affairs,  I take  it.” 

Forty  thousand  pounds  ! ” repeats  Mark,  stu- 
pefied ; some  rapid  intuition  shadowing  forth  to 
him  the  fatal  game  of  cross-purposes  in  which  Jet 
has  played  the  part  at  once  of  heroine  and  victim. 

A good  round  sum,  is  it  not?  No  bad  prize 
for  a Mr.  Laurence  Biron  to  have  picked  up  ? At 
first,  when  I heard  the  thing  spoken  of,  I disbe- 
lieved it,  as  I disbelieved  everything  in  the  Hotel 
Paradis,  on  principle.  Heiresses  of  nineteen  do 
not,  in  this  generation,  fall  over  head  and  ears  in 
love  with  penniless  adventurers,  black-coated  or 
otherwise.  But  I was  mistaken ; Miss  Jet  Con- 
yngham has  displayed  the  generic  wrongheaded- 
ness and  perversity  of  her  sex.” 

At  this  point,  Mark,  it  is  obvious,  should  ask 
questions.  He  speaks  not  a word  ; stands  blankly 
staring,  with  a far-off  expression,  at  the  fire  ; is, 
in  truth,  morally  stunned,  although  far  from  the 
stage  of  insensibility  at  which  no  fresh  pain  can 
be  experienced. 

Four  or  five  days  ago  they  got  up  an  after- 
noon expedition  to  Tamaris,  a well-named  donkey- 
expedition,  consisting  of  half  the  people  of  the  ho- 
tel. I was  one  of  them  ! Sir,  I detest  these  out- 


A WOMAN-HATER’S  WOES. 


159 


of-door  assemblages.  I am  obliged  to  winter  in 
the  south,  to  give  up  London,  and  my  profession, 
and  everything  else  that  niakes  life  worth  living. 
That  is  bad  enough,  without  having  the  very  face 
of  Nature  spoiled  for  me,  the  very  woods  and 
mountains  vulgarized  by  foolish  gushes  of  mock 
enthusiasm,  by  the  presence  of  picnic-baskets, 
sketch-books,  and  parasols.  However,  at  the  elev- 
enth hour,  I went — just  as  I did  everything  else  at 
the  Hotel  Paradis,  from  compulsion.  The  day 
was  fine,  I had  a supply  of  cigars  in  my  pocket ; 
when  I was  once  in  the  forest  I contrived  to  shake 
myself  free  from — from  the  person  at  whose  side 
I had  the  unhappiness  to  find  myself.  What  be- 
came of  the  expedition  I cannot  tell  you.  Two 
members  of  it  I lighted  upon,  suddenly,  at  a latish 
hour  in  the  afternoon,  in  a remote  quarter  of  the 
forest — Laurence  Biron  and  Miss  Jet  Conyng- 
ham ! ” 

Again  he  pauses  ; and  again  Mark  Austen  con- 
tinues rigidly  silent.  But  Dr.  Oldham,  misogy- 
nist though  he  be,  as  great  a news-monger,  in  his 
way,  as  Major  Brett,  will  not  be  balked  of  telling 
his  little  bit  of  scandal  by  any  want  of  interest  on 
the  part  of  his  listener. 

I am  painfully  near-sighted,  as  you  may  have 
remarked,  and  I was  within  a dozen  paces  of  Mr. 
Biron  and  his  companion  before  I awoke  to  my 
position.  Happily  for  myself,  the  underwood  at 
that  part  of  the  forest  was  thick,  and  I was  able 


160  jJET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


to  beat  a hasty  retreat,  unnoticed.  You  asked  me 
if  any  engagement  of  marriage  exists  between 
them.  I hesitated  before  giving  you  an  answer. 
What  I saw^  in  spite  of  my  wish  to  see  nothing, 
was — Miss  Jet  Conyngham  throw  her  arms  round 
Laurence  Biron’s  neck,  and — ” 

It  is  false — false  as — ! ” 

And  Mark  Austen’s  face  turns  livid  to  the  very 
lips. 

False  ! ” exclaims  the  little  doctor,  starting 
up,  with  an  instinctive  backward  movement  in  the 
direction  of  the  door. 

Sir — I must  ask  you  to  pardon  me  ! ” cries 
poor  Mark,  once  more  remembering  his  position, 
and  the  madness  of  constituting  himself  Jet’s  cham- 
pion. I owe  you  every  apology,”  he  adds,  but 
I was  occupied  with  my  own  thoughts  rather  than 
with  your  words.  The  truth  is,  I have  been  trav- 
eling for  the  last  two  nights,  and  my  head  is  con- 
fused. I must  try  if  fresh  air  will  not  restore  me 
to  my  senses.” 

He  walks  quickly  out  through  the  time-black- 
ened archway  of  the  Petit  St.- Joseph,  walks 
quickly  through  the  narrow,  winding  lanes  of 
Esterel  proper.  Outside  one  or  two  palm-shaded 
cafes  are  knots  of  citizens  enjoying  their  nightly 
dissipation  of  sugar- water  and  cigarettes.  Some 
muleteers,  coming  in  late  from  the  mountains, 
whistle,  with  light  hearts  and  free,  as  they  pass 


A WOMAK-IiATER’S  WOES.  l61 

along.  The  world,  one  miserable  human  creature 
excepted,  is  in  spirits  ! 

Mark  Austen  walks  on,  unheeding  of  his  road  ; 
in  three  minutes’  time  finds  himself  opposite  the 
gilt-and-bronze  railings,  the  rose-draped  statues,  the 
gas-illumined  letters  of  the  Grand  Hotel  Paradis. 

The  Venetians  of  the  dining-room  are  unclosed, 
and  a flood  of  brilliant  light  pours  forth  into  the 
court-yard.  Not  a servant  of  the  hotel  is  abroad. 
Even  old  Hans,  the  concierge^  dreams  of  the  Va- 
terland,  his  head  upon  his  breast,  in  the  most  com- 
fortable corner  of  the  portico.  Mark  steps  within 
shadow  of  the  house,  walks  quickly  to  the  nearest 
window,  and  sees — Jet  ! Jet  not  a dozen  yards 
away  from  him,  and  all  unconscious  whose  eyes 
watch  her  in  jealous  wretchedness  from  the  out- 
side darkness. 

She  is  dressed  in  white,  as  Biron  likes  best  to 
see  her,  with  delicate  natural  flowers  gleaming, 
like  snow,  in  her  hair  and  at  her  breast.  Her 
cheeks  are  flushed ; her  whole  face  is  lit  up,  radi- 
ant with  excitement.  Mr.  Biron,  from  his  place 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  is  leaning  for- 
ward and  addressing  her. 

^‘The  handsome,  yellow-haired  girl  who  has 
thrown  herself  away  on  Laurence  Biron.” 

When  Mark  heard  those  words  carelessly  ut« 
tered,  they  stabbed  him  to  the  quick.  Judge  if 
his  wound  is  healed  by  this  palpable,  living  con- 
firmation of  their  truth  1 


162  JET:  HER  FACS  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


CHAPTER  XVL 

ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 

An  Arles  head-dress  ; pearl-powder,  not  too 
artistically  showered  over  a brickdust  - colored 
skin  ; trailing  velvet  skirts ; a lap-dog  supported 
on  arms  to  which  all  the  bismuth,  all  the  bracelets 
in  the  world,  can  never  restore  the  look  of  youth  ! 
Such  elements  make  up  the  jarring  whole  that 
sweeps,  with  an  air,  into  the  salon  of  the  Grand 
Hotel  Paradis  on  this  first  evening  of  Mr.  Lau- 
rence Biron’s  return  to  Esterel. 

Miladi  ! ” goes  from  mouth  to  mouth,  for  ’tis 
her  first  public  appearance  ; Lady  Austen,  with 
her  Fifine,  dined  in  the  privacy  of  her  own  apart- 
ments. .And  then,  as  if  by  common  impulse,  all 
eyes  are  turned  in  the  direction  of  Jet  Conyng- 
ham. 

If  the  situation  be  not  correctly  understood  in 
detail,  its  general  bearings  are  sufficiently  well 
guessed  at  for  the  dramatic  interest  to  be  keen. 
Most  of  the  people  present  know  that  Laurence 
Biron’s  marriage  with  Lady  Austen  has  been  a 
contingency  speculated  on  for  years.  Every  one 
of  them,  during  the  past  fortnight,  has  seen  him, 
openly  and  devotedly,  J et’s  slave. 

Subjugated  by  those  fine  eyes  of  hers,  or  by 
the  heaitx  yeux  de  sa  cassette, In  terms  like 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


163 


these,  little  Major  Brett  answers  the  dozen  whis- 
pered inquiries  that  beset  him.  Ah  ! my  dear 
madam,  this  is  a question  for  the  future.  Impos- 
sible to  pronounce  a moral  while  the  fable  is  in- 
complete. Impossible  to  judge  of  motive  until 
we  read  the  last  chapter  of  the  story.” 

Jet,  whatever  secret  aching  may  be  at  her 
heart,  bears  herself  bravely. 

I think  I ought  to  have  been  warned,”  she 
remarks — miladi,  with  Lady  Macbeth  mien,  hav- 
ing swept  past  the  window  within  whose  embra- 
sure she  and  Cora  stand,  Laurence  Biron  beside 
them,  For  most  things  I was  prepared  ; not  for 
this  ! — Pray,  Mr.  Biron,  did  the  Arles  coiffure 
travel  on  direct  from  Avignon  to  Florence,  or  has 
it  been  carefully  stored  away  in  your  possession 
till  to-night  ? ” 

^^If  you  are  strong,  be  merciful,”  is  Biron’s 
answer.  “ I told  you,  at  the  time  (you  were  look- 
ing ‘beautiful  by  proxy,’  if  you  remember  !),  that 
the  Arles  coiffure  was  to  be  worn  by — well,  by  a 
lady  no  longer  in  the  first  giddy  heyday  of  youth.” 

“ I am  not  so  sure  on  the  score  of  giddiness,” 
says  Jet,  maliciously.  “There  is  a want  of  bal- 
ance, a certain  crazy,  tottering  look  about  the 
whole  edifice,  that,  to  me,  is  alarming.  Do  you 
not  think  you  ought  to  be  at  hand,  sir,  just  in 
case  of  any  sudden  downfall  ? ” 

Cora,  upon  this,  joins  in,  with  the  usual  blunt 
directness  characteristic  of  her  type,  the  want  of 


164  i on  liElt  rORTCJNE? 

tact  that  renders  imimagiiiative  people  the  terrible 
children  of  society. 

Mark  Austen  and  his  mother  are  as  like  as 
two  people  can  be,  Jet.  When  first  miladi  got 
down  from  the  omnibus  I did  not  see  it,  but  now 
I recognize  Mark  in  every  feature.” 

When  first  miladi  got  down  from  the  omni- 
bus ! ” repeats  Biron,  blankly. 

He  is  a man  by  no  means  fond  of  children,  ter- 
rible or  otherwise.  He  feels,  although  as  yet  he 
has  scarcely  exchanged  a dozen  sentences  with 
her,  that  he  is  not  fond  of  his  future  sister-in-law. 
Something  in  the  tone  of  Cora’s  steady  voice,  in 
the  gaze  of  her  round,  black,  unchanging  eyes,  at 
once  irritates  and  embarrasses  him. 

Ah  ! I see  we  may  as  well  make  a clear  con- 
fession,” cries  Jet,  sensitive  as  iodine  to  light  to 
every  expression  of  his  face.  Cora  has  never 
kept  a secret  for  more  than  half  an  hour  in  her 
life,  and  is  too  old  to  mend  her  ways  now.  We 
— we  ran  down  to  see  the  omnibus  arrive  from 
Salon.  Of  course,  I expected  no  one  but  you, 
sir  ; and  we  stood  beliind  the  screen  of  plants  in 
the  portico,  and — ” 

It  w^as  very  diverting,  indeed,”  proceeds  Cora, 
as  Jet  hesitates.  I feU  as  if  I was  at  the  play  ! 
All  about  the  glove  and  the  luggage,  and,  ^ Fijine^ 
ma  mie,  ma  hibiche  ” 

The  blood  mounts  hotly  to  Laurence  Biron’s 
temples. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


165 


‘‘  I need  not  ask  if  I have  been  missed,  if  you 
have  been  dull  during  my  absence  ? ” he  remarks 
to  Jet,  later  on  in  the  evening.  “Your  sister’s 
charming  flow  of  spirits  must  be  an  effectual  safe- 
guard against  ennui P 

“ I have  missed  you  every  minute  of  the  time 
— ^missed  you  in  spite  of  my  joy  at  seeing  Cora,” 
Jet  answers,  simply,  “As  to  ennui — guess  how 
we  amused,  or  tried  to  amuse,  ourselves  yesterday 
night,  when  all  the  rest  of  the  world  was  sound 
asleep  ? ” 

“ Not  in  discussing  my  demerits,  I trust  ? ” 

“ In  telling  your  fortune,  Mr.  Biron.  I cut  the 
cards  for  you,  and  Cora  made  out  their  meaning. 
Oh,  you  may  smile — Cora  has  the  gift.  It  was 
born  with  her.  I do  not  like  to  think  how  near 
the  truth  Cora’s  soothsayings  come.” 

“Well,  is  fortune  favorable  to  me,  or  the  re- 
verse ? ” says  Biron  ; and  he  smiles,  but  uneasily. 
“ Cora’s  predictions  included  the  usual  dark  wom- 
an and  fair  man,  and  letter  from  over  the  sea,  of 
course  ? ” 

“ Cora  told  exactly  what  you  had  been  doing 
yesterday  in  Nice.  During  the  first  part  of  the 
day  your  mind  was  set  on  money.” 

“Perfectly,  absolutely  true,”  Mr.  Biron  con- 
fesses. (Upon  what  day,  he  adds,  mentally,  and 
at  what  hour,  is  his  mind  not  set  on  money?) 
“ Afterward  ? ” 

Who,”  says  Jet,  turning  her  eyes  full  upon 


166  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

her  lover — who  was  the  lady  yon  thought  of, 
and  watched  during  the  evening  ? She  was  blond 
— ^blonder  than  I am,  fearfully  pretty^  and  Cora 
declared,  though,  for  my  part,  I refused  to  believe 
it,  that  you  made  her  a present.” 

Just  for  a moment  Mr.  Biron  pauses.  Then — 

Cora’s  clairvoyance  is  beyond  a jest,  my 
love,”  he  remarks,  gravely.  They  are  so  placed 
as  to  be  out  of  reach  of  curious  ears,  and  Cora, 
for  a space,  has  left  them  alone.  If  your  sister 
can  tell  fortunes  after  this  fashion,  she  must  be  a' 
little  witch,  and  I shall  not  allow  you  to  have  any- 
thing to  say  to  her.” 

Ah,  sir  ! then  there  was  some  one  ? ” 

Jet  Conyngham’s  foolish  heart  beats,  her  lips 
tremble. 

There  was — Rose  Pinson,  a French  dancer, 
whom  I remember,  years  ago,  in  Paris.  I felt  so 
lonely  without  you,  child,  that  I spent  my  evening 
at  the  theatre — ” 

“ Oh,  pray,  go  on  ! ” 

And  from  sheer  idleness  threw  a bouquet  of 
flowers  at  Mademoiselle  Pinson’s  feet.  Now,  is 
Cora  a witch  ? ” 

I am  glad  I know  the  worst,”  and  Jet’s  breast 
heaves  a big  sigh  of  relief.  ‘‘  I — Laurence  ! ” she 
exclaims,  with  sudden  earnestness,  ‘‘I  hope  to 
Heaven  I am  not  going  to  be  jealous  ! ” 

I hope  not,  most  devoutly,”  he  replies.  Jeal- 
ousy, my  dear  child — I speak  from  knowledge — 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


167 


is  the  ugliest  vice  by  which  a woman  can  be  de- 
formed. If  it  is  impossible,  as  some  people  say, 
for  love  to  exist  without  it,  I,  for  one,  would  far 
sooner  exist  without  love.” 

I make  my  mind  up.  From  this  hour  forth 
I will  never  again  be  jealous  while  I live.  Throw 
bouquets  to  Mademoiselle  Pinson.  Take  mysteri- 
ous railway-] ourneys  with  Lady  Austen.  I shall 
be  silent,  a Griselda  of  resignation,  through  it  all.” 

Mysterious  railway- journeys  ! I first,  to  my 
astonishment,  saw  Lady  Austen  at  Salon  Station. 
From  Salon  Station  I drove  with  her  to  Esterel — 
in  dead  silence.  Lady  Austen,  in  a good  temper, 
has — well — has  some  admirable  qualities.  Lady 
Austen,  in  her  present  state  of  mind,  is — the 
devil ! ” 

The  word  seems  to  escape  him  involuntarily. 
Scarcely  is  it  uttered  when  miladi,  her  lap-dog  re- 
posing on  her  arms,  sails  slowly  across  the  room, 
and  stands  confronting  him. 

Fifine,  recognizing  her  enemy,  gives  a vicious 
snap.  Little  Major  Brett  (with  whom  Lady  Austen 
has  been  just  conversing  in  animating  whispers) 
glances  round  him  in  some  sort  as  an  artist  might 
do  if  seeking  to  call  the  world’s  attention  to  his 
work. 

Miladi  stands  motionless. 

She  looks  Jet  Conyngham  from  head  to  foot. 
She  looks  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  from  head 
to  foot. 


168  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

Never  a word  does  she  utter. 

Well,  reader,  for  half  a minute’s  space  Jet  feels 
the  crisis  to  be  tragical  exceedingly.  Then,  veer- 
ing round,  as  ’tis  her  nature  to,”  the  girl  sees  it 
in  its  farcical  outside  aspect,  and  raises  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  lips. 

Never  was  unwise,  impulse  more  unwisely 
yielded  to.  Lady  Austen  is  totally  without  the 
sense  of  humor  herself.  Would  she  wear  that 
Arles  head-dress,  would  she  dizen  herself  with 
bismuth,  rouge,  and  pearl-powder,  had  she  one 
grain  of  humor  ? She  can,  in  no  wise,  pardon  the 
possession  of  it  by  others.  Laugh  at  her,  and,  if 
she  be  not  your  enemy  beforehand,  it  will  be  war 
to  the  knife  between  you  and  miladi  forever  after. 

Good-evening  to  you,  Mr.  Biron. — Fifine,  ma 
charmantCy  keep  quiet ! Mr.  Biron  is  a friend — 
you  hear,  charmante,  a friend! — I have  come  to 
solicit  a favor  ” (this  with  a little  theatrical  down- 
ward inclination  of  the  head) — ^^an  introduction 
to  Miss  Jet  Conyngham.” 

Her  voice,  considering  that  it  is  Lady  Austen’s 
voice,  is  suave  ; her  manner  amicable. 

Jet  Conyngham  repents  her  of  her  levity. 

After  all,  what  are  miladi’s  crimes,  real  or  sus- 
pected ? The  wish  to  appear  youthful  in  Lau- 
rence Biron’s  eyes,  the  caring  for  Laurence  Biron 
absurdly  but  too  well.  If  Lady  Austen  feel  bit- 
terly toward  herself.  Jet  Conyngham,  is  there  mat- 
ter for  wonder  ? Should  not  generosity,  delicacy, 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


169 


make  her  look  with  pity  upon  this  woman,  old 
enough  to  be  her  grandmother,  of  whom  she  may 
have  been,  unwittingly,  the  successful  rival  ? 

Mr.  Biron  introduces  the  two  ladies  with  what 
grace  he  may.  He  waits  in  an  agony  of  expecta- 
tion for  Lady  Austen’s  first  words. 

She  is  quite  capable,  as  he  has  proved  ere  this, 
of  disgracing  him  before  a salon  full  of  people. 
Probably  it  is  her  intention  to  disgrace  him  now. 
Will  Jet’s  pride,  would  the  pride  of  any  sensitive 
girl  of  nineteen,  stand  an  ordeal  so  humiliating  ? 

But  Lady  Austen’s  disposition^ — could  one  for- 
get the  expression  of  her  eyes,  her  lips — is  honey- 
sweet. 

‘‘You  are  making  some  stay  in  Esterel,  my 
dear  ? So  your  papa  tells  me.  I have  just  been 
renewing  my  old  acquaintance  with  your  papa. 
We  have  known  Mr.  Conyngham  for  ages — I 
should  think  before  this  young  lady  left  off  pina- 
fores, Laurence.” 

“ It  is  certainly  some  years  since  I first  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  Mr.  Conyngham,”  stammers 
Laurence  Biron. 

“ And  you  have  been  exploring  the  woods,  I 
hear,  under  Mr.  Biron’s  chaperonage.  Y^ou  could 
find  no  one  better  qualified  as  a guide. — I suppose 
there  is  not  one  excursion  within  ten  miles  of  Es- 
terel that  we  have  not  taken,  Laurence  ? Alas  !— » 

^ Nous  n’irons  plus  aux  bois, 

Les  lauriers  sont  coupes  P ’■ 


170  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


Biron  has  grown  white  to  the  very  lips. 

Her  mode  of  attack  is  not  the  one  on  which 
he  counted,  yet  it  is  none  the  less  deadly.  Nay, 
as  the  unknown  has  ever  more  terrors  for  us  than 
the  known,  it  seems  to  him  that  Lady  Austen, 
quiet,  dignified,  quoting  sentimental  verse,  is  more 
to  be  feared  in  very  truth  than  Lady  Austen  loud 
and  reckless. 

Miladi  sees  what  impression  she  has  produced 
on  him — about  Jet  she  neither  recks  nor  cares — 
and  the  corners  of  her  mouth  tighten. 

‘^You  and  your  half-sister  do  not  resemble 
each  other.  Miss  Jet  Conyngham.  The  young 
lady  who  leans  her  arm  against  Mr.  Conyngham’s 
chair  is  your  sister  ? ” 

My  sister  Cora,”  answers  Jet.  No  ; we  are 
as  different  as  possible — are  we  not  ? People  tell 
me  I am  like  papa  ; and  Cora — ” 

Is  the  living  image  of  her  mother,”  remarks 
miladi,  quickly.  I remember  your  father’s  first 
wife  as  she  looked  upon  her  wedding-morning — a 
good  many  more  years  ago  than  I care  to  count  ! 
I have  been  a professed  vagabond,  a kind  of  Ital- 
ian strolling  player,  all  my  life,  my  dear.”  No 
one  better  understands  than  miladi  the  difficult 
art  of  using  truth  as  a vehicle  for  falsehood. 

And  as  I am  an  old  woman  now,  and  have  a 
faithful  memory — a faithful  memory,  Mr.  Biron 
— there  are  few  things  connected  with  the  lost 
tribes  of  the  Peninsula  during  the  past  five-and- 
twenty  year§  that  are  unknown  to  me,” 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


171 


“ I — I was  not  aware  that  you  and  papa  had 
been  acquainted  so  long,”  says  Jet,  but  with  hesi- 
tation. She  feels  this  subject  of  ages  and  dates 
to  be  a perilous  one. 

‘^We  were  not  acquainted,  personally,  until 
later  on.  Your  papa’s  marriage  was  an  event 
much  talked  of,  and  I went,  with  half  Florence, 
to  the  English  chapel  to  witness  it.  Alas,  alas  ! 
^Tempera  mutantur,  et  nos  mutamur  in  illis.’ 
You,  my  dear,  are  too  young  to  have  begun  re- 
gretting time’s  flight.” 

As  Lady  Austen  speaks,  the  first  notes  of  one 
of  Moore’s  most  , delicious  melodies  are  struck  on 
the  piano.  A minute  later,  and  a soprano  voice, 
sweet,  full,  Irisli^  fills  the  whole  vast  salon  with 
its  music. 

The  performer  is  an  amateur,  whose  renown, 
as  a singer  of  ballads,  is  European.  Not  by  the 
lips  of  any  artist  in  London  could  the  song  be 
rendered  with  higher  finish,  with  pathos  more  deli- 
cate and  subtile. 

Miladi,  who,  if  the  telling  of  her  age  depended 
on  it,  could  scarcely  distinguish  a requiem  from  a 
polka,  puts  herself  in  an  attitude  and  endures  it, 
much  as  she  might  endure  any  excellence  that 
should  turn  away  attention  from  herself. 

Laurence  Biron,  one  of  whose  saving  graces  is 
a love  for  music,  stands  spellbound. 

“ Give  me  back,  give  me  back  the  wild  freshness  of  morn- 
ing ! ” 


172  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


At  the  conclusion  of  the  verse,  he  turns,  and 
looks  at  Jet. 

The  girl’s  whole  countenance  is  aglow  with 
keenly-roused  feeling  ; her  lips  are  parted,  her 
eyes_  moist. 

To  the  last  hour  of  his  life  Mr.  Biron  will  surely 
never  forget  that  moment — the  sentiment  of  the 
words,  the  touching  voice  that  sings,  the  exquisite 
face  whose  “wild  freshness  of  morning”  it  has 
been  his  special  work  to  destroy  ! 

“ Fifine,  mon  unique  amoiir^'*  cries  iniladi, 
when  the  song  is  over,  holding  up  the  dog  (as,  in 
his  infant  days,  she  certainly  never  upheld  poor 
Mark)  to  her  face.  “We  are  tired  after  our  jour- 
ney, and  must  seek  repose  and  meditation,  ma  mie 
— must  we  not  ? — Miss  J et  Conyngham,  most 
pleased  and  honored  to  have  made  your  acquaint- 
ance,” dropping  a stately  reverence,  but  neA^er  ex- 
tending her  hand  for  Jet’s  acceptance. — “Mr. 
Biron,  I wish  you  a very  good  night.” 

And,  having  so  spoken,  the  eyes  of  every  one 
riveted  upon  her  departure  as  upon  her  advent, 
she  walks,  with  the  step  and  gait  of  a transpontine 
Cleopatra,  across  the  salon.  Biron,  hapless  An- 
tony of  the  performance,  follows.  He  holds  open 
the  door  for  Lady  Austen  to  pass  out. 

“ I have  a trifling  bit  of  news  to  tell  you,”  she 
remarks,  in  a whisper  that  he  knows  over-well. 
“You  Avill  leave  Miss  Conyngham’s  side.  You 
will  come  to  my  apartment  at  once,” 


IN  MILADPS  CHAMBER. 


173 

And  then,  in  a voice  hoarse,  all  but  incoher- 
ent, with  passion,  she  utters  one  other  word  aloud 
— ^‘Vendetta  ! ” 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

IN  MILADl’s  CHAMBER. 

Gone  are  French  phrases,  theatrical  affecta- 
tions ; gone  is  Fifine.  Thunder-showers  of  angry 
tears  have  washed  the  pearl-powder  down  Lady 
Austen’s  cheeks.  Ribbons,  brooches,  bracelets,  lie 
in  a heap  upon  the  table.  The  tragedy- 

queen  no  longer,  stripped  of  meretricious  adorn- 
ment, remains.  A commonplace  virago,  pacing 
her  apartment  with  angry  steps  ; jealousy  burn- 
ing fiercely  at  her  heart ; wounded  vanity  sharp- 
ening, beforehand,  the  reproaches  with  which  she 
is  about  to  assail  her  recreant  lover. 

A commonplace  virago,  unlovely  externally, 
unlovely  of  soul,  yet  with  justice,  with  right,  in- 
dubitably on  her  side. 

Right ! There  is  the  cause  that  held  Laurence 
Biron  silent  during  their  five  miles’  drive  from 
Salon ; there  the  cause  that  makes  him  shrink, 
cowardly,  from  confronting  her  now. 

Villains  cast  in  the  true  heroic  mould  should 
be  above,  or  beneath,  caring  for  these  abstract 
questions,  prepared  consistently  to  follow  the  line 


1^4:  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


of  action  chalked  out  for  them  hy  their  own  de- 
sires. 

The  foundations  of  Mr.  Biron’s  character  are 
laid  in  sand. 

Essentially  weak,  beneath  all  his  outward  var- 
nish of  stoicism,  Laurence  Biron  is  a man  forever 
to  seize  the  surface-good  of  the  moment  and  to  re- 
pent him  of  having  seized  it  at  the  next — a man, 
as  we  have  seen  before,  who  even  poses  in  touch- 
ing little  moral  attitudes,  with  no  other  audience 
than  his  own  consciousness  ! 

During  any  number  of  years  past,  he  has  been 
Lady  Austen’s  quasi-suitor,  so  far  seriously  affi- 
anced as  to  be  able,  with  some  decent  shreds  of 
self-respect,  to  derive  perennial  support  from  her 
comfortable  widow’s  jointure.  It  has  been  the  best 
thing  he  could  do,  the  surface-good  of  the  moment 
— just  as  the  winning  (perchance  breaking)  Jet 
Conyngham’s  fresh  heart  has  been  the  ^‘best 
thing  ” now.  He  cannot,  as  a tougher-fibred,  less 
self-conscious  scoundrel  might,  cast  the  connec- 
tion aside  boldly. 

Walking  along  the  corridor  which  leads  to  nii- 
ladi’s  apartments,  certain  shaky  sensations  about 
his  knees  make  him  realize,  forcibly,  through  what 
kind  of  ordeal  criminals  must  pass  on  their  way 
to  the  scaffold.  A telltale  moisture  gathers  con- 
tinually on  his  forehead,  his  handsome  face  is 
blanched  to  a most  unhandsome  sallowness. 

He  knocks.  The  tone  in  which  miladi  bids 


IN  MiLABrS  CHAMBER. 


175 


him  Come  in  ” is  not  one  calculated  to  restore 
liis  valor.  But  it  is  too  late,  now,  for  retreat  or 
vacillation.  He  enters  ; closes  the  door  behind 
him  ; advances  to  the  centre  of  the  room. 

Lady  Austen  and  the  Reverend  Laurence 
Biron  stand  face  to  face. 

‘^You  have  found  courage  to  come,  then?’^ 
This  is  her  greeting  of  him.  You  have  found 
courage  to  come,  to  look  me  in  the  eyes,  after  your 
conduct  to-night  ? ” 

“You  desired  to  see  me,”  he  answers,  some- 
what doggedly.  How  but  with  doggedness  shall 
a man  meet  such  a woman’s  violence  ? “ And  I 

am  here.” 

“ You  are  here — yes  ! Perhaps  you  would  like 
to  know  what  sort  of  figure  you  cut  in  my 
sight?” 

Mr.  Biron  expresses  no  curiosity  on  the  subject. 
He  has  walked  up  to  the  hearth,  and  stands  there, 
his  back  turned  toward  the  fire.  His  eyes  are 
fixed  on  a mirror  at  the  farther  end  of  the  apart- 
ment— a mirror  so  hung  as  to  display  to  him  the 
image  of  his  own  white  face  during  the  whole 
continuance  of  the  interview. 

“ I have  never  had  a very  high  opinion  of  you, 
mon  am%  at  the  best  of  times.” 

“ I have  never  had  a very  high  opinion  of  my- 
self, Lady  Austen — of  myself,  or  of  my  position.” 

“ But  as  I saw  you  to-night,  at  the  side  of  that 
foolish  schoolgirl,  assuming,  or  attempting  to  as- 


176  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE 


sume,  the  manner  of  a lad  of  twenty,  you  looked 
more  thoroughly  contemptible  than  I have  ever 
seen  you  yet.” 

If  it  is  to  go  through  scenes,  to  listen  to  re- 
criminations of  this  kind,  that — ” So  he  is  begin- 
ning, in  the  old  tone  of  mastery  which,  sooner  or 
later,  he  has  always  managed  to  reach  in  the  course 
of  their  hottest  quarrels.  But  Lady  Austen  cuts 
him  short ; not  without  a certain  genuine  dignity. 

‘‘You  are  here  to  listen  to  whatever  I choose 
to  say,  Mr.  Biron,  and,  take  my  honest  v»^ord  for  it, 
you  will  leave  this  room  a wiser  man,  by  far,  than 
you  entered  it.  Recrimination — scenes  ! No. 
We  are  past  all  that  kind  of  weakness,  I should 
hope.  A point  or  two  past  it.” 

Miladi  stops  in  her  walk — for  up  to  this  mo- 
ment she  has  continued  to  pace  restlessly  to  and 
fro,  as  she  had  done  before  his  entrance.  She  ad- 
vances to  him — lays  a hand  upon  his  arm. 

“ Laurence,”  she  says,  in  a voice  so  softened 
that,  for  a second,  it  takes  him  aback,  “ I talked 
of  my  vendetta  a while  since.  I longed  for  it ! 
And  yet  now — now  that  vendetta  is  so  close,  I am 
sorry  for  you.” 

Mr.  Biron  does  not  reply. 

“ Sorry  for  you,  to  a degree  impossible  for  you 
to  guess  at — ^yet.  Do  you  ” — the  words  evidently 
leave  her  lips  with  an  effort — “ do  you  care  for  this 
miss-in-her-teens,  this  child,  Jet  Conyngham?” 

“ Lady  Austen — 


m MlLADrS  CHAMBER. 


ir7 


I want  an  answer,  a true  one  if  it  is  possible 
for  you  to  speak  the  truth.  Do  you  care  for 
her  ? 

admire  Miss  Jet  Conyngham  immensely. 
Most  men  would  do  the  same.” 

“ That  is  a matter  of  opinion ; no  answer 
vrhatever  to  my  question.  Is  it  admiration  for 
her  that  has  prevented  your  writing  to  me  during 
the  past  fortnight?  Admiration  that  has  kept 
you  in  Ester  el  ? Admiration  that  made  you  slight, 
trample  upon  me — a room  full  of  people  present 
to  witness  the  insult — as  you  did  to-night  ? ” 

Really,  Lady  Austen,  I must  ask  you  to  use 
less  extravagant  language  if  you  would  have  me 
understand  you.  What  insult,  actual,  implied, 
shadowed,  have  I offered  you  ? ” 

“You  have  offered  me  the  insult  of  neglect, 
sir  ! neglect,  gross  and  intentional.  Do  you  think, 
when  I entered  the  room,  I did  not  see  you,  laugh- 
ing, whispering,  wifch  Miss  Conyngham,  making 
me,  I have  no  doubt,  the  subject  of  your  jests? 
Do  you  think  I did  not  feel  it  when,  as  the  even- 
ing wore  on,  you  never  went  through  the  empty 
form,  even,  of  coming  near  me  ? You  have  told 
me,  sometimes,  that  my  master-passion  is  vanity. 
Allowed.  How  must  my  vanity,  my  master-pas- 
sion, have  smarted  under  your  treatment  to- 
night ! ” 

Biron  casts  about  in  his  thoughts  for  an  effi- 
cient means  of  self-defense.  Finding  none,  he 
12 


178  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

remarks,  somewhat  weakly,  that  he  should  no". 
suppose  any  one  in  the  salon  of  the  Hotel  Paradis 
paid  much  heed  to  his  actions. 

But  Lady  Austen  cuts  him  short. 

The  whole  of  the  people  in  that  salon  paid 

heed  to  you,  Mr.  Biron — the  K s,  the  L s ” 

— rapidly  she  names  the  different  inmates  of  the 
hotel — Major  Brett,  Frederick  Conyngham,  him- 
self. Are  we  not  known,  personally  or  by  repute, 
to  every  English  person  in  the  house  ? ” 

Known^  indeed  ! ” repeats  Laurence  Biron, 
almost  with  a groan. 

Do  you  suppose  ” — old  woman  though  she 
be,  a flush  rises  on  miladi’s  cheek  ; her  eyes  droop 
— do  you  suppose  that  my  feelings,  my  right,  at 
least,  to  your  outward  respect,  are  not  under- 
stood?” 

Mr.  Biron  fidgets  about  uneasily ; he  passes 
his  hand  over  his  forehead. 

“You  are  making  me  thoroughly  unhappy  by 
all  these  reproaches,  Helena,  and  I really  fail  to 
see  that  you  are  doing  any  good  to  yourself.  It 
was  inevitable,  actually  inevitable,”  he  repeats, 
steeling  himself  to  strike  a decisive  blow,  “ that 
our  relations  toward  each  other  must  alter,  as 
time  wore  on.” 

Lady  Austen  moves  a little  away  from  him. 
She  rests  her  arm  against  the  wall,  as  if  to  steady 
herself  under  some  suddenly-inflicted  bodily  pain. 

“ Inevitable  that  our  relations  must  alter  ! I 


m MILADl’S  CHAMBER. 


119 


can  understand  an  honorable  man  being  forced  to 
speak  like  this — under  some  circumstances.  Hard- 
ly in  yours.  If  you  felt  sure,  beforehand,  of  your 
own  faithlessness,  I wonder  you  could  accept — 
could  incur  such  solid  money  obligations  as  you 
stand  in  toward  me.” 

It  is  not  a generous  speech.  With  love — well, 
no  ! we  will  not  say  with  love  lying  bleeding — 
but  with  vanity  newly  stabbed,  with  jealous  pas- 
sion at  white-heat,  it  is  to  be  feared  that  few  wom- 
en of  Lady  Austen’s  type  would  show  very  fine 
or  delicate  generosity.  One  thing  is  certain.  Her 
reply,  unworthy  though  it  be,  is  on  a moral  level 
no  lower  than  the  taunt  that  called  it  forth. 

I am  your  debtor  to  an  extent  that  makes  me 
blush,”  says  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron,  coldly. 

Still,  if  anything  could  lighten  the  uneasy  load 
of  my  obligation,  it  would  be  for  your  lips  to  re- 
mind me  of  it  in  such  a moment  as  this.  For 
every  hundred  pounds  that  you  have  ever  been 
good  enough  to  lend  me.  Lady  Austen,  you  have, 
I think,  my  note  of  hand — ” 

“ Your  note  of  hand  ! ” Miladi  laughs  — a 
laugh  not  pleasant  to  hear. 

And  before  very  long  I shall  be  in  a position 
to  repay  you  all.  By  Heaven  ! ” exclaims  Biron, 
drawing  himself  up  as  though  he  already  felt  him- 
self free  from  the  chains  that  shackle  him,  ^‘that 
first  hour  of  liberty  will  be  the  sweetest  one  I have 
tasted  for  a good  many  years.” 


180  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTTOE^ 


Lady  Austen  looks  at  him  fixedly. 

You  will  be  in  a position  soon  to  repay  your 
debts — debts,  if  you  force  me  into  calling  a spade  a 
spade,  that  can  no  longer  be  reckoned  by  hundreds  ! 
I am  glad  to  hear  it.  From  rumors  that  had 
reached  me  during  the  last  ten  days,  I feared  that 
bankruptcy — worse,  even,  than  all  that  went  be- 
fore— ^ awaited  you  in  the  future.  Laurence  ” (af- 
ter a pause),  “I  suppose  this  must,  in  some  sort, 
be  looked  upon  as  a good-by  between  you  and 
me  ? ” 

If  you  choose  to  make  it  so.  I know  of  no 
cause  or  just  impediment  to  stand  in  the  way  of 
our  continuing  friends.” 

You  see  I have  reasons  for  wishing  to  be  ex- 
plicit. Mark  will  be  with  me  to-morrow ; he  is 
probably  in  Esterel  at  this  moment.  I have  felt 
it  my  duty,  standing  alone  as  I stand  now,  to  send 
for  the  boy.  I shall  have  to  speak  to  him  of  my 
affairs,  and  in  pretty  plain  language.” 

It  seems  to  Mr.  Biron  that  her  tone  implies  a 
threat,  and  his  spirit  rises. 

Your  son  Mark  has  hated  me  always.  Lady 
Austen.  You  talk  of  insult ! What  insult  have 
I not,  for  your  sake,  put  up  with  from  Mark  ? 
Why,  the  last  time  I saw  him — ” 

All  that  is  as  well  left  alone — buried  in  the 
past ; I wish  to  deal  with  things  that  concern  me — 
nearly,  in  the  present.  Is  Mark  to  be  told,  or  not, 
that  you  have  broken  your  faith  to  me  ? ” 


IN  MILADFS  CHAMBER. 


181 


The  question  is  uttered  with  a gasp.  Miladi 
sinks  down  into  the  nearest  chair.  She  covers  her 
face  over  with  her  thin,  jeweled  hands. 

Mr.  Biron’s  aesthetic  conscience  ” remains  un- 
touched, his  sensibility  hard  as  the  nether  mill- 
stone ! lie  has  been  going  through  scenes  of  a 
like  nature  during  a course  of  years,  it  must  be 
remembered ; knows  Lady  Austen,  and  her  his- 
trionic capabilities,  to  a shade. 

How  should  he  guess  that  for  once  the  clever 
actress  is  merged  in  the  passionate  woman,  how 
believe  that  under  so  much  paint  and  pearl-pow- 
der (moral  as  well  as  physical)  there  beats  a heart 
— frivolous,  if  you  will,  vain,  selfish,  but  still  a 
heart — loving  him  with  all  the  love  it  has  to  give, 
bleeding  at  every  pore  over  his  infidelity  ? 

‘^Mark  will  be  only  too  rejoiced  to  hear  that 
you  are  rid  of  me  at  last.” 

She  lifts  her  face  ; she  looks  at  him  with  a 
steadfast,  pitiful  earnestness. 

, Rid  of  you  ! I understand — I understand. 
And  the  world  at  large — a trifling  consideration 
to  a man,  perhaps — to  a woman,  everything.  How 
is  the  world  going  to  receive  me  after  such  an 
esclandre  as  this  ? ” 

I am  at  a loss  to  know  what  you  allude  to 
when  you  use  the  term  esclandre  ? ” 

“ I allude  to  your  marriage  with  Miss  Jet  Con- 
yngham  ; I allude  to  your  treachery  to  me.  Have 
I not  given  up  money,  friends,  the  affection  of 


JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


tiiose  nearest  and  dearest  to  me,  for  your  sake, 
sir?  Have  I not  incurred  the  reproaches  of  so- 
ciety ? ” 

Blron  turns  round  upon  her,  a smile — harder 
for  miladi  to  bear  than  any  outburst  of  violence — 
upon  his  lips. 

My  dear  Lady  Austen,  let  us  keep  ourselves, 
pleai^e,  within  the  regions  of  common-sense  ! Speak 
of  money,  and  I answer,  as  I did  just  now,  that  I 
look  forward  with  thankfulness  to  the  approaching 
hour  in  which  I shall  be  able  to  repay  my  obliga- 
tions. Romantic  regrets  about  ‘ society,’  specula- 
tions as  to  the  world  thinking  one  thing  or  anoth- 
er, in  the  case  of  people  of  our  age,  are— ^excuse 
me  for  my  frankness — absolutely  too  ridiculous.” 

It  is  a speech  over  the  remembrance  of  which 
the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  will,  I doubt  not, 
be  made  to  smart  throughout  the  remainder  of  his 
natural  life. 

Miladi  starts  up,  lightning-quick  ; she  stands 
looking  at  him — stands  with  fury  gleaming  in  her 
^yes,  with  hands  clinched,  with  swelling  veins. 

“Age!  Well,  I have  sunk  low,  indeed!  I 
have  received  the  last  indignity  you  had  it  in  your 
power  to  offer.  Age  ! ” In  the  whole  English 
language  there  is  probably  no  other  word  that 
Lady  Austen  could  pronounce  with  such  loathing 
emphasis.'  “This,  indeed,  sets  me  free  from  all 
promises — this  ends  the  friendship  of  years  fitly. 
Oh,  sii',  there  is  something  yet  for  you  to  hear 


IN  MTLADPS  CHAMBER. 


183 


before  you  go”  (for  Biron,  at  his  first  chance  of 
liberation,  has  made  a movement  in  the  direction 
of  the  door)  : I asked  you  a v/hile  since  if  you 
cared  seriously  for  this  girl  to  whom  you  have 
engaged  yourself — this  Miss  Jet  Conyngham.  I 
repeat  my  question  now.” 

“ It  is  a question  you  have  no  right  whatever 
to  ask,  Lady  Austen,  but,  as  you  press  me,  I am 
ready  to  answer  it.  I do  care  for  the  girl  I hope 
to  make  my  wife.” 

“ That  is  fortunate  for  her  and  for  you.  Where 
money  is  at  stake,  one  cannot  always  feel  sure  of 
affection  accompanying  men’s  choice  ; but,  of 
course,  in  the  present  case  there  can  be  small 
doubt  as  to  the  disinterestedness  of  all  parties. 
You — well,  Laurence,  you  are  never  likely  to  be 
burdened  with  this  world’s  goods  : Jet  Conyng- 
ham is  a pauper — ” 

“ Lady  Austen — ” 

‘^Except  so  far  as  Mr.  Conyngham — or,  per- 
haps, the  sister — may  choose  to  make  her  some 
small  allowance.” 

‘Won— you  are  laboring  under  a gross  mis- 
take,” he  articulates,  slowly,  with  half-drawn 
breath. 

Mistake  ? Oh,  not  the  slightest.  You  re- 
member a letter  I wrote  you  last  month  ? It  met 
you  at  Avignon — a letter  commissioning  you  to 
send  me  this  very  head-dress  I am  wearing  to- 
night. I told  you  in  it  about  Mr.  Conyngham’s 


J84:  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

coming  to  Esterel  with  his  daughter — the  creole, 
the  heiress.  Well,  when  I heard  of  you  afterward 
— you  see,  these  little  historiettes  make  to  them- 
selves wiugs — heard  how  you  were  paying  your 
attentions  to  ^ the  rich  Miss  Conyngham,’  I could 
not  help  feeling  that  perhaps  I had  myself  to  thank 
for  your  falseness.  Judge  of  my  surprise  this 
evening  to  find  you,  Laurence  Biron,  caught  by  a 
pink-and- white  face  at  last — romantically  ov^r 
head  and  ears  in  love,  not  with  Cora  Conyngham, 
the  heiress,  but  with  her  half-sister  Jet,  the  daugh- 
ter of  a penniless  Boston  beauty,  a girl  without  a 
farthing  ! ” 

Laurence  Biron  stands  like  a man  petrified — 
incredulous,  as  yet,  of  that  which  has  befallen  him, 
and  still  with  a hundred  trivial  incidents,  a hun- 
dred careless  words  of  Jet’s,  rushing  back  upon 
his  memory,  and  confirming  the  truth  which  it  is 
worse  than  ruin  for  him  to  believe. 

Lady  Austen  rings  the  bell  twice  ; then,  with 
a yawn,  gathers  up  the  heap  of  trinkets  from  the 
table. 

‘Wou  will  forgive  me  for  summoning  Val- 
lance,  I know.  I am  really  dying  of  fatigue.  I 
protest  I don’t  think  I ever  felt  so  sleepy  in  my 
life  ; and,  besides,  I want  to  see  my  poor  dear  Fi- 
fine  to  her  bed.  What  were  we  talking  of  ? Oh, 
I remember — of  Cora  Conyngham,  the  heiress,  the 
sister  of  your  jianc'ee.  Major  Brett  knows  all 
about  Cora  Conyngham’s  money — recollects  the 


IN  MILADPS  CHAMBER. 


185 


mother’s  marriage — indeed,  as  I do  myself.  F orty 
thousand  pounds  on  her  twenty-third  birthday — 
little  Brett  had  it  from  Mr.  Conyngham  himself— 
and  engaged  to  an  obscure  country  clergyman,  with 
a Devonshire  living  of  three  hundred  a year.  ’Tis 
difficult  to  realize,  no  doubt,  but  such  is  the  situa- 
tion, mon  cher.  Such  are  the  inequalities  of  fate.” 

Not  a sound  escapes  Laurence  Biron’s  set  lips. 
Already,  in  this  minute’s  space,  the  shipwreck  of 
his  hopes  seems  to  have  become  old  to  him.  Dif- 
ficult to  realize  ? Nay ; happiness,  not  pain,  re- 
quires time  ere  we  can  grow  familiar  with  it. 
The  fact  hard  of  realization  to  Laurence  Biron  is, 
that  one  half-hour  ago  he  was  Jet’s  lover,  freed 
from  Lady  Austen’s  yoke,  with  peace,  indepen- 
dence, wealth,  every  fairest  crown  of  human  life, 
lying  before  him  in  a golden  future  ! 

A discreet  lady’s-maid  tap  comes  at  the  door. 

^Mn  two  seconds,  Vallance!”  cries  out  mi- 
ladi,  pleasantly.  Carry  Fifine  in  at  once  : I shall 
follow  immediately.” 

Then,  turning  to  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron, 
ere  she  quits  the  room,  she  drops  him  a low  cour- 
tesy. 

‘^Our  interview  began  stormily  enough,  mon 
ami^  but  it  ends — ha  ! ha  ! excuse  me,  I cannot 
help  a sense  of  diversion — in  comedy — ha  ! ha  ! — 
a comedy  of  errors  ! You  calculated  shrewdly, 
Laurence — made  the  best  of  your  time  and  of  your 
fascinations,  and  only  fell  into  one  trifling  mistake 


186  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


— that  of  losing  your  heart  to  the  wrong  sister  ! 

A TwedeTla,'^'^ 

And,  sending  him  a kiss  from  her  finger-tips, 
in  playful  token  of  farewell.  Lady  Austen  disap- 
pears. 

She  has  told  her  hit  of  trifling  news,  has  had 
her  vendetta  in  good  earnest. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

JUST  A TOUCH  OF  ROUGE  ! 

Vendetta  ! The  taste  is  good  in  Lady  Aus- 
ten’s mouth  ; sweet  is  the  sleep  that  follows — ay, 
and  visited  by  flattering  dreams. 

Then  comes  reaction  ; the  cold,  gray  hour  of 
moral  indigestion  ; the  breaking  of  a new  doy. 
Where  is  her  triumph  now  ? With  what  zest  can 
she  look  forward  to  witnessing  Biron’s  ruin? 
What  joy  is  there  in  knowing  that  she  and  Biron 
have  broken  with  each  other  irrevocably  ? 

Miladi  pushes  back  her  mosquito-curtains,  takes 
a pocket-glass — to  women  of  her  type  the  one 
^’aithful  friend — from  the  table  beside  her  bed, 
and,  by  such  light  as  the  expiring  night-lamp,  the 
dull  November  morning,  yield,  studies  her  own 
face  carefully. 

It  is  a face  whose  natural  charm  half  a century 
has  swept  away,  a face  upon  which  unbridled  tern- 


JUST  A TOUCH  OF  ROUGE! 


187 


per,  late  hours,  cosmetics — Lady  Austen’s  enemies 
might,  perchance,  add  stimulants — have  left  their 
unmistakable  seal : the  face  of  an  old  woman  ! 

This  last  fact  miladi  might  certainly  have 
known  any  time  during  the  past  dozen  years  or 
more  ; and  still,  under  the  glamour  of  Biron’s  con- 
stant companionship,  she  has  never  had  it  positive- 
ly, cruelly  brought  home  to  her  till  this  moment. 

An  old  woman  ! In  fancy  she  can  see  herself 
wandering  about  Europe  with  a maid  and  lap-dog, 
or  virtuously  keeping  house  for  her  son  in  a Ger- 
man university-town  ; later  on,  perhaps,  sinking, 
in  Bath  or  Cheltenham,  to  whist,  knitting-needles, 
and  bazaars — she,  Iiady  Austen  (with  her  adjuncts), 
one  of  the  celebrities  of  Italy,  sinking  to  whist, 
knitting-needles,  and  bazaars  ! 

During  her  journey  from  Florence  yesterday, 
in  every  varied  conception  that  she  has  been  able 
to  form  of  a rupture  with  Biron,  the  mixture  of 
certain  fine,  semi-tragic  elements  served  to  thrust 
the  sense  of  personal  humiliation  aside.  She  would 
find  her  false  lover  upon  the  eve  of  marrying  a 
richer  bride,  would  denounce  him  publicly  as 
traitorous  and . forsworn,  and  have — not  exactly 
the  censorious,  strait-laced  world,  it  might  be,  but 
a Very  picturesque  minority  of  men  and  women — 
of  men  more  especially — upon  her  side  ! 

This  was  -the  high-colored  sketch,  dashed  in  by 
miladi’s  imagination.  In  reality,  she  finds — what  ? 
Laurence  Biron  in  love — in  love  with  a handsome, 


188  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

penniless  girl  of  nineteen  ; herself,  no  interesting 
victim  sacrificed  by  the  mercenary  fickle-hearted- 
ness  of  man,  but  simply  the  ridiculous  duenna  of 
whose  pretensions,  of  whose  jealousy,  all  operas, 
comedies,  and  novels,  make  a jest. 

What,”  she  asks  herself,  with  a shiver,  what 
will  life  be,  from  this  day  forth  and  for  evermore, 
without  Biron  ? ” 

To  women  neither  vain  nor  frivolous,  the  day 
on  which  good-by  must  definitely  be  spoken  to 
youth  is  a dreary  one.  Still,  it  comes  in  its  ap- 
pointed course.  Though  history,  in  the  main, 
repeat  itself,  the  legend  of  Ninon  de  I’Enclos  re- 
mains unique.  Lady  Austen  is  a living  anachron- 
ism ; by  a whimsical  combination  of  accidents  has 
breathed,  ever  since  she  first  made  Biron’s  ac- 
quaintance, in  an  atmosphere  just  fifteen  or  twenty 
years  too  young  for  her. 

The  world,  so  she  flatters  herself,  has  forgotten 
Angelina’s  wrinkles  in  remembering  the  age  and 
handsome  person  of  her  Edwin — for,  lacking  even 
a rudimentary  sense  of  humor.  Lady  Austen  re- 
flects not  that  it  is  possible  to  be  notorious  through 
sheer  absurdity  ! Entering  a dining-room  or  the- 
atre on  Biron’s  arm,  riding  on  horseback  in  public 
places  with  Biron  for  her  cavalier,  she  knows,  yes, 
although  her  half-century  of  existence  be  well 
struck,  that  she  is  still  talked  of  ” — with  a shrug 
of  the  shoulders  by  some,  with  ill-suppressed  smiles 
by  others.  No  matter — ‘talked  of 


JUST  A TOUCH  OF  ROUGE! 


189 


Through  some  misty  entanglement  of  ideas, 
possibly  from  the  mere  ring  of  Biron’s  name,  one 
of  her  cherished  notions  has  ever  been  that  men 
regard  her  as  a kind  of  second  Guiccioli. 

And  now,  all  is  over.  The  inevitable  change 
in  their  relations  has  come  ; Biron,  by  her  own 
lips,  is  set  free,  Mark  summoned — that  thought 
of  Mark,  perhaps,  yields  the  sharpest  sting  of  all 
— Mark  summoned  to  be  witness  of  their  separa- 
tion ! 

A bad  time  of  it  has  Vallance,  when  she  carries 
in  her  mistress’s  chocolate,  and  the  last  little  scan- 
dal of  the  Hotel  Paradis.  A bad  time  has  Fifine, 
when  she  attempts  to  take  her  wonted  place  be- 
side miladi’s  dressing-table  for  her  breakfast  of 
cream  and  macaroons. 

Lady  Austen  is  in  no  humor  for  servants’-hall 
gossip  or  lap-dog  caresses.  Lady  Austen  is  in  no 
humor  for  anything  ! 

Anticipating  I know  not  what  series  of  dra- 
matic tableaux,  in  which  millinery  details  might 
fitly  play  a part,  the  poor  soul  has  brought  with 
her  3;  dozen  boxes  or  more  of  theatrical  property  ; 
relays  of  morning-robes,  evening-dresses,  coiffures, 
perukes.  The  sight  of  these,  her  war-plumes,  as 
they  lie,  half  unpacked,  about  the  chamber,  gives 
the  last  finishing  touch  to  her  sense  of  failure,  of 
abandonment. 

What  need,  in  the  pass  to  which  she  has  come, 
of  longer  fighting  against  the  enemy,  Time  ? Time 


190  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


has  conquered  her.  As  well  how  to  the  inevitable, 
accept  the  blank,  monotonous  vista  of  days  that 
lies  before  her,  without  a struggle.  Butterfly-tint- 
ed wrappers,  head-dresses  of  this  reign  or  of  that  ? 
No  : miladi  vdll  have  none  of  them.  She  will 
wear  black  ; will  wear  her  own  hair,  plainly 
braided  ; has  migraine^  palpitation  of  the  heart ; 
means  to  receive  no  visitors,  unless,  of  course,  Mr. 
Mark  should  arrive  this  morning.  Then,  when 
she  stands  before  the  mirror,  in  black,  and  with 
her  own  hair  plainly  braided,  she  begins  to  weep 
— yes,  reader,  to  weep — pity  her,  or  laugh  at  her, 
as  you  will — at  the  piteous  image  presented  to 
her. 

Old  ? Why,  she  looks  fifteen,  twenty  years 
older  than  she  did  yesterday,  and  hollow-cheeked, 
ghastly.  “ If  only  for  my  poor  child’s  sake,  Val- 
lance,  I must  make  an  effort.  Give  me  some  sal- 
volatile — show  me  my  dresses.  A mother^ s heart 
must  put  selfish  weakness  aside,  in  a moment  like 
this.”  And  the  dresses  are  shown  her — white, 
mauve,  pink,  the  costly  Paris  confections  are 
brought  forth,  successively,  by  the  faithful  hands 
of  Vallance  (Vallance,  who  grasps  the  whole  state 
of  affairs  just  a little  more  clearly  than  does  her 
mistress  herself).  And  still  miladi  is  not  pleased. 
She  is  too  sallow  for  mauve,  too  faded  for  white  ; 
in  her  best  days  pink  never  suited  her,  save  by 
candle-light.  Decidedly,  of  all  months  in  the  year, 
November  is  the  most  unbecoming.  Dear  Dr. 


JUST  A TOUCH  OF  ROUGE! 


191 


Herzlieb  has  explained  to  her  about  the  actinic 
action  of  light.  Some  chemical  peculiarity  in  the 
atmosphere  must  cause  the  human  skin  to  look  as 
it  does  to-day.  Or  can  it  be  that  the  mirrors  of 
the  Hotel  Paradis  are  made  of  inferior,  horribly 
unflattering  glass  ? 

At  last,  she  plucks  up  heart  enough  to  try  on 
a delicate,  cream-colored  sack  ; one  of  Worth’s 
latest  achievements,  and  cut  line  for  line,  so  the 
artist  declares,  from  a genuine  Pompadour,  his- 
torically vouched  for,  and  now  in  the  possession 
of  one  of  the  noblest  families  of  France. 

Surely,  if  panacea  could  be  found  for  a strick- 
en spirit,  it  must  be  here — a dress  made  line  for 
line,  plait  for  plait,  after  an  historically  vouched- 
for  Pompadour  ! And  one  consolation  brings 
about  another.  By  the  time  the  sack  is  adjusted, 
the  coiffure  must  be  altered  ; and  then,  there  are 
adjuncts  of  ribbons  and  laces  ; and  then,  a touch 
— W ell,  if  you  insist  upon  it,  V allance,  a touch 
of  rouge,  just  to  conceal  the  ravages  of  tears  from 
my  poor  boy.”  Finally,  by  ten  o’clock.  Lady 
Austen  descends  the  staircase,  pearl-powdered, 
carmined,  bewigged  ; Fifine  in  her  arms  ; the 
usual  galimatias  on  her  tongue  ; as  fearfully 
and  wonderfully  miladi  as  ever. 

She  sweeps  along  the  corridors,  conscious  that 
even  the  servants  look  after  her  with  admiration, 
whisper  Miladi  ” as  she  passes.  She  reaches  her 
salorij  pauses  a moment  at  the  door,  in  vague  sus- 


193  her  face  or  HER  FORTUNE? 

pense  as  to  whether  her  son  may  await  her  within 
— enters. 

The  Reverend  Laurence  Biron,  white  as  any 
spectre,  stands  beside  the  hearth. 

He  comes  forward  with  irresolute  steps,  with 
head  down  bent. 

Helena,”  he  utters,  in  a tone  out  of  which  all 
resemblance  to  his  ordinary  voice  seems  to  have 
vanished,  I am  here  to  ask  your  forgiveness,  to 
plead  for  a reconciliation.  Am  I too  late  ? ” 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A GENUINE  POMPADOUR. 

It  is  ten  o’clock  when  Mr.  Biron  asks  this  quesv 
tion,  a question  upon  the  solution  of  which  hang 
the  destinies  of  at  least  four  actors  in  this  little 
drama.  At  eleven  young  Mark,  with  a quick- 
beating heart,  waits  in  the  hall  of  the  Paradis  to 
know  if  his  mother,  after  more  than  three  years’ 
separation,  will  receive  ” him. 

He  has  sent  up  his  card  by  one  of  the  hotel- 
waiters.  Mistress  V allance — a good  quarter  of  an 
hour  having  elapsed — brings  down  w^^ord  that  mi- 
ladi  is  visible.  Mistress  Vallance  (with  a face  dif- 
ferently made  from  the  face  which  Nature  gave 
her,  jigging,  ambling,  lisping,  nicknaming  God’s 
creatures  after  the  very  manner  of  Lady  Austen 


A G'SNtJiNE  POxMPADOUE. 


193 


herself)  walks  before  Mark  up-stairs,  then  ushers 
him,  with  a stately  Mr.  Mark  Austen,”  into  mi- 
ladi’s  presence. 

The  mother  and  son  shake  hands.  Lady  Aus- 
ten presents  her  forehead  for  Mark’s  salute — from 
his  earliest  infancy  Mark  was  educated  to  regard 
his  mother’s  lips  and  cheeks  as  fashioned  of  per- 
ishable materials.  Half  a minute  later,  arranging 
herself,  with  Fifine,  in  an  attitude,  miladi  sinks 
again  into  the  arm-chair  from  which  she  rose  on 
the  entrance  of  her  enfant  cheri^  and  begins  to 
talk  commonplace. 

What ! Mark  really  arrived  in  Esterel  last 
night,  and  never  came  to  see  her  ? Is  putting  up 
at  one  of  the  small  French  hotels,  with  a paved 
floor,  no  doubt — oh,  those  terrible  paved  floors  ! — 
in  preference  to  the  Paradis  ? Well,  well  ; she 
must  not  find  fault,  after  his  glorious  examina- 
tion ! The  greatest  delight  to  herself,  and  to  his 
other  amis  intimes^  though,  to  be  sure,  it  will  in- 
volve that  cruel  climate  of  India.  Now,  was  it 
two  thousand  nine  hundred  and  fifty,  or  three 
thousand  marks  ? She  read  all  about  it  in  the  pa- 
pers at  the  time,  but  has  such  a sad,  sad  memory 
for  figures  ! In  any  case,  it  is  a relief  to  think 
that  that  distressing  land-surveyhig,  which  has 
ever — with  a sigh — been  so  sharp  a cross  to  her 
to  bear,  should  be  over. 

Mark  listens  in  silence  ; the  old  pain  at  his 
heart,  the  old,  bitter  sense  of  humiliation  gaining 
13 


194  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


upon  him  with  each  airy  sentence  Lady  Austen 
utters. 

He  had  hoped — poor — lad  ! — to  finS  some  sub- 
stantial change  in  his  mother’s  outward  woman  at 
least ; some  abandonment  of  paint,  perukes,  and 
broken  English ; some  acknowledgment  of  age  ; 
some  outward  and  visible  sign  that  Laurence  Bi- 
ron’s  reign,  and  the  frivolities  that  accompanied 
it,  were  over. 

With  his  heart  crushed  by  the  knowledge  that 
Biron  has  become  his  successful  rival  in  Jet’s  re- 
gard, he  has  still  felt,  throughout  the  wretched 
watches  of  the  night,  that  there  would  be  balm 
for  him  in  seeing  Lady  Austen  maintain  her 
changed  position  with  dignity  ; consolation  in 
finding  that  he  could  call  her  mother,”  appear 
with  her  in  the  sight  of  men,  be  all  to  her  for 
which  his  affection  yearns,  unhaunted  by  the  jeal- 
ousy which  has  clouded  so  many  years  of  his 
young  life. 

That  she  should  have  invited  him  to  visit  her 
was  an  omen  from  which,  ere  he  quitted  England, 
he  augured  the  best  ; a sign,  at  all  events,  when 
she  dispatched  the  message,  of  her  being  no  lon- 
ger under  Biron’s  infiuence.  But  still — , 

Mother,”  he  begins,  abruptly,  unable  longer 
to  bear  her  commonplace  talk,  the  cruel  suspense 
that  tortures  him,  “ I see,  a good  deal  to  my  sur- 
prise, that  Mr.  Laurence  Biron  is  in  Esterel.” 

^‘Yes,”  answers  miladi,  calmly,  arranging  a 


A GENUINE  POMPADOUR. 


195 


rebellious  frilling  of  her  Pompadour  robe.  Lau- 
rence Biron  is  staying  just  at  present  at  the  Hotel 
Paradis.” 

I passed  this  way  last  night  at  an  hour  when 
I could  not  think  of  disturbing  you,  and  saw  him. 
He  was  sitting  opposite  Miss  Jet  Conyngham  at 
dinner.” 

Indeed ! ” 

If  Mark  believed  this  sudden  home-thrust 
would  bring  about  a crisis  he  was  mistaken.  NTo 
shadow  of  embarrassment  crosses  Lady  Austen’s 
face.  She  meets  her  son’s  eyes  with  steady  cool- 
ness. 

^^I  was  so  tired  after  my  journey,  and  Fifine, 
too — n^est-ce  pas^  ma  charmante  f — that  we  could 
not  dine  in  public.  I had  not  got  Fifine  in  your 
day,  surely,  Mark  ? No,  it  must  have  been  Na- 
poleon— poor,  sweet  pet  ! I don’t  know  whether 
I ever  wrote  you  the  particulars  of  Napoleon’s 
tragic  ending  ? ” 

Mark  rises  hastily.  He  walks  to  and  fro  about 
the  room,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him — an  Aus- 
ten look  ” that  miladi  should  know  about  his  face, 
Of  course,  I have  no  wish  to  open  unpleasant 
discussions,  mother.  When  I came  here  I hoped 
from  my  soul  that  the  name  of  Laurence  Biron 
would  not  be  spoken  between  us  ! Your  invita* 
tion  made  me  believe  that  a new  leaf  had  been 
turned  at  last.  Am  I mistaken  ? ” 

If  I had  the  slightest  notion — down,  bad  Fi 


198  FACI::  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


fine,  down  ! — she  makes  lici’self  so  thin  with  eating 
flies — the  very  smallest  soup^on  of  an  idea  what 
you  mean  by  a new  leaf,  I dare  say  I could  give 
you  an  answer.” 

I mean  a new  leaf  with  regard  to  Mr.  Biron. 
Do  we  still  reckon  him  upon  our  list  of  acquaint- 
ance, or  do  we  not  ? 

Laurence  Biron  upon  our  list  of  acquaintance, 
child?  I protest  I do  not  know  what  you  are- 
driving  at,”  says  miladi,  innocently.  Laurence 
was  in  this  room  not  a quarter  of  an  hour  ago, 
talking  over  the  results  of  your  examination,  and 
as  pleased  ” — Lady  Austen  raises  a morsel  of  per- 
fumed lace  to  her  eyes — as  pleased  as  your  own 
dear  papa  could  have  been  at  the  improvement  in 
your  prospects.” 

Up  springs  the  angry  blood  into  Mark’s  face. 

If  I had  known  this  sooner  ! ” he  exclaims, 
vv  ith  sudden  passion.  By  Heaven  ! if  I had 
known  I was  to  find  that  fellow  under  the  same 
roof  with  you,  the  expense  of  my  journey  to  Es- 
terel  might  have  been  spared.” 

Expense  ! ” repeats  miladi,  in  what  she  would 
fain  render  a soothing  tone.  Really,  Mark,  you 
are  impayahle.  What  can  expense,  the  price  of 
a railway-ticket,  of  half  a dozen  hotel-bills,  mat- 
ter?” 

“ It  matters  a great  deal  to  me,”  is  Mark’s  an- 
swer. You  cannot  suppose,  mother,  that  my  ex- 
amination, from  first  to  last,  has  cost  me  nothing  ? 


A GENUINE  POMPADOUR. 


1^7 


I am  in  debt  more  than  fifty  pounds  at  this  mo- 
ment.” 

Fifty  pounds — the  price  of  a dress,  of  a hi- 
jou  ! How  many  fifty  pounds  have  I not  thrown 
away  this  year  ? Ah  ! if  you  knew  the  pleasure 
it  would  be  to  me  to  help  you,  Mark,  you  would 
not  be  so  stiff-necked — I can  call  your  perversity 
by  no  milder  name^ — on  the  score  of  money.” 

Honest  tears  are  in  miladi’s  eyes  (tears,  I need 
scarcely  add,  kept  carefully  on  the  safe  side  of 
overfiowing).  No  man  or  woman  exists  with  char- 
acter absolutely  unleavened  by  good.  Lady  Aus- 
ten’s one  virtue  is  a certain  constitutional  open- 
handedness  that  makes  it  easier  for  her,  in  every 
relation  of  life,  to  give  than  to  withhold. 

“ And  if  you  knew  the  pleasure  it  would  be  to 
me  to  receive  your  help  ! ” says  Mark,  crossing 
over  to  her  side.  ^^You  call  me  stiff-necked — I 
am  more.  I am  obstinate,  unforgiving  ; oh,  I 
know  the  faults  of  my  disposition  well  enough, 
and  I know  the  foundation-stone  upon  which  they 
rest — jealousy.  Money  ! Why,  from  the  time  I 
was  a schoolboy,  it  would  have  been  sweeter  to 
me  any  day  to  starve — you  hear  me,  mother,  to 
starve — than  to  take  money  from  you.” 

Why  ? ” 

Lady  Austen’s  eyelids  droop.  She  murmurs 
something,  in  a plaintive  voice,  about  letting  by- 
gones be  by-gones. 

With  all  my  heart,  when  they  are  by-gones,” 


198  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

exclaims  Mark.  It  was  in  the  hope  that  the  past 
was  over  and  done  with,  that  at  length  you  would 
look  upon  me  with  undivided  affection,  that  I came 
here.  I was  warranted  in  my  hopes  by  your  last 
letter.” 

That  letter  was  written  in  a moment  of  pain- 
ful annoyance,”  interrupts  Lady  Austen.  The 
past  fortnight  has  been  the  most  trying  ordeal  I 
have  gone  through  since  your  poor  dear  papa’s 
death.” 

Mark,  on  this  second  allusion  to  his  father, 
moves  away.  He  stands  looking  at  her  coldly. 

You  must  remember,  child,  I have  been  quite 
alone  of  late.  Florence  is  so  desperately  empty 
— and  nothing  shatters  my  nerves  like  solitude  ! 
I believe  a life  of  solitude  would  drive  me  out  of 
my  senses,  I do  indeed.  I am  not  as  young  as  I 
once  was,  Mark  ? ” 

A certain  pathetic  tone  supplies  the  note  of 
interrogation  with  which  this  truism  ends.  But 
Mark  is  in  no  humor  to  supply  the  sweet  unction 
of  flattery  that  miladi’s  soul  yearns  for. 

And  I care  less  and  less  for  the  empty  pleas- 
ures of  the  world.  I require  epancheinents  de  coeur 
{Fifine,  mon  idole^  ma  hibiche^  les  mouches  seront 
ta  ruine!)^  companionship  for  the  heart  as  well  as 
the  intellect.  Where — where  among  the  gilded 
crowds  of  fashion  shall  we  And  this  ? ” 

You  are  taking  nie  out  of  my  depths,”  says 
Mark,  in  his  most  freezing  voice.  W orldly  pleas- 


A GENUINE  POMPADOUR. 


199 


nres,  gilded  crowds  of  fashion,  are  altogether  be- 
yond the  range  of  my  imagination.” 

He  laughs,  joylessly  enough.  The  old,  hope- 
less want  of  sympathy  has  but  strengthened, 
the  lad  feels,  by  absence  ; the  impassable  gulf 
yawns  wider  than  ever  between  his  mother  and 
himself. 

If  you  really  desire  a quieter  life,  if  you  are 
weary  of  Florence  and  its  dissipations,”  he  goes 
on,  presently,  ‘^why  not  make  your  home  for  a 
while  with  me  ? I shall  have  to  pass  two  years 
under  a practical  engineer  before  I start  for  India. 
In  some  quiet  German  town — ” 

Lady  Austen  holds  up  both  her  hands  with  a 
little  deprecatory  scream.  The  action  may  be 
theatrical,  the  sentiment  of  horror  that  inspires  it 
is  real. 

German  town,  German  climate,  German 
coffee-parties,  for  me,  a child  of  the  south,  accus- 
tomed to  sunshine,  blue  skies,  a life  of  emotion, 
art  ! No,  caro  mio,  I have  spent  the  best  half 
of  my  existence  in  Italy.  I shall  remain  there,” 
says  miladi,  not  without  a softer  cadence  in  her 
voice,  until  I die.” 

Mark  looks  at  her  fixedly. 

I had  hoped,”  he  remarks,  after  a few  sec- 
onds’ silence — I had  hoped,  under  present  altered 
circumstances,  that  you  might  like  the  change  for 
a year,  for  a few  months,  at  least,  of  being  my 
companion,” 


200  jet  ; HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE  ? 

What  do  you  mean  by  ‘ present  altered  cir 
cumstances  ? ’ ” cries  miladi,  her  eye  kindling. 

^‘Surely,  you  do  not  want  me  to  tell  you  in 
plainer  terms  ? ” 

I do,  indeed  ; I dislike  imbroglios,  sous-enten- 
duSy  Geheimnisslcrdmereiy  of  any  kind.” 

I mean  Laurence  Biron’s  engagement.  After 
his  marriage,  Mr.  Biron  can  scarcely  play  the  part 
of  Greek  chorus  in  our  lives  that  he  has  played 
during  the  past  six  years.” 

Lady  Austen  raises  her  head  with  all  the  dig- 
nity that  a genuine  Pompadour  (peruke,  laces,  and 
ribbons  to  match)  can  yield.  She  looks  up  sternly 
into  her  son’s  face. 

^‘Mr.  Biron’s  engagement  — marriage!  Mr. 
Biron  no  longer  able  to  play  the  part  of  Greek 
chorus  in  our  lives — our  lives  ! You  are  talking 
to  me  in  an  unknown  language,  Mark.” 

I thought  no  language  was  unknown  to  you, 
mother,”  cries  Mark,  with  rising  color.  But  per- 
haps you  have  lived  too  long  away  from  England 
to  understand  plain  English  words,  or  thoughts,  or 
feelings.  Laurence  Biron  was  engaged  five  days 
ago  to  Miss  Jet  Conyngham.  She  is  spoken  of 
openly  in  Esterel  as  his  affianced  wife.  Thus 
much  is  certain.” 

‘^Is  it  indeed,  child?  Then  I can  tell  you  ^for 
certain,’  with  permission  to  cite  me  as  your  author- 
ity, that  Laurence  Biron  is  not  engaged  to  Miss 
Jet  Conyngham^  and  has  no  intention,  under  any 


A GENUINE  POMPADOUR. 


201 


circumstances  whatever,  of  making  her  his  wife. 
You  hear  me  ?” 

I do,”  answers  Mark,  his  face  whitening  with 
passion  ; “ I hear,  and  I believe  I understand.  If 
my  suspicion  is  true,”  he  adds,  with  bitter  mean- 
ing, “ if  Laurence  Biron,  influenced  by  I care  not 
whom,  has  played  false  to  the  best  and  noblest 
woman  living,  he  is  a greater  scoundrel  than  even 
I have  taken  him  for  ! ” 

And  pray  what  business  is  it  of  yours,  figlio 
mio  f What  do  you  know  of  this  best  and  noblest 
woman  to  call  forth  such  a tintamarre  of  indigna- 
tion ? The  whole  story  is  of  every-day  occurrence. 

‘Ein  Jiingling  liebt  ein  Madchen; 

Die  hatP  einen  Andern  erw^lt; 

Der  Andre  ....  liebt  eine  Andre ! ’ 

Wait  till  this  afternoon,”  goes  on  miladi,  uncon- 
cernedly. ‘‘  Come  to  a little  tertulia  I shall  have 
at  five  o’clock  to-day,  and  you  will  meet  Miss  Jet 
Conyngham  and  Laurence  Biron  together,  as  my 
guests  y 

To  this  invitation  Mark  vouchsafes  no  answer ; 
and,  ere  Lady  Austen  has  had  time  to  repeat  it,  a 
step  is  heard  outside  in  the  passage;  the  door  opens. 

“ I may  come  in  ? ” asks  a voice,  whose  unfor- 
gotten, half -airy,  half-commanding  ring  sends  the 
blood  boiling  through  Mark  Austen’s  veins.— Ah, 
Mark,  my  boy,  this  is  a pleasure  indeed.” 

And  with  face  decently  well  set  to  the  part 


202  -"ET;  her  face  or  HER  FORTUNE? 


he  plays,  with  hand  outheld,  in  token  of  friend- 
ly greeting,  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  walks 
across  the  room. 

Mark  folds  his  arms  upon  his  breast,  and,  ig- 
noring the  proffered  hand,  looks  Laurence  Biron 
steadfastly  between  the  eyes. 

We — we  were  just  in  the  middle  of  a little 
discussion,”  cries  miladi — her  flushed  cheeks,  her 
set  lips,  belying  the  playfulness  of  her  tone. 

Don’t  you  remember,  Laurence,  you  used  to  de^ 
dare  you  never  came  upon  Mark  and  me  alone 
without  flnding  us  in  the  thick  of  an  Austen  con- 
troversy ? ” 

controversy — with  absent  friends  for  its 
subject?”  says  Laurence  Biron,  gradually  with- 
drawing the  hand  that  Mark  refuses  to  receive. 

‘Les  absents^  as  I know  to  my  cost,  ^ ont  toujours 
tort?  You  were  not  discussing  my  merits,  now,  I 
hope,  Mark  ? ” 

“ I was  not,  sir,”  answers  Mark  Austen,  with 
stern  emphasis.  “ On  the  contrary,  I was  speak- 
ing, as  you  entered,  of  the  person  I esteem  most 
in  the  world — of  Miss  Jet  Conyngham.” 

Miladi  starts,  with  an  exclamation  of  fury,  to 
her  feeto 


NOVEMBER  VIOLETS. 


203 


CHAPTER  XX. 

NOVEMBER  VIOLETS. 

“‘Jealousy  is  the  ugliest  vice  by  which  a 
woman  can  be  deformed.  If  it  is  impossible  for 
love  to  exist  undisfigured  by  it,  I,  for  one,  would 
sooner  exist  without  love.’  Those  are  Mr.  Biron’s 
doctrines,  so  solemnly  enunciated  by  him  last 
night  that  I vowed  no  Rose  Pinson,  no  miladi, 
should  ever  put  me  off  my  moral  balance  again. 
And  still — still,  Cora,”  says  Jet,  with  one  of  her 
rapid  transitions  from  gay  to  grave,  “it  needs 
but  an  afternoon’s  absence  to  bring  back  the^ugly 
vice  in  fullest  force.  Everything  will  be  set  right 
half  an  hour  hence,”  she  adds,  a little  tremulously. 
“We  shall  see  Laurence  at  Lady  Austen’s  party, 
and  a word  from  him  will  be  more  than  sufficient 
explanation  of  his  conduct.  But  to-day,  forever, 
must  be  a day  lost ! Nothing  can  make  up  for 
the  happy  hours  we  might  have  had  since  this 
morning.” 

The  November  twilight  is  closing  fast ; already 
a glaring  flood  of  gas  streams  forth,  preparatory 
to  the  tertuliay  from  Lady  Austen’s  salon  on  the 
first  floor  of  the  Paradis.  The  invalids  are  safe 
within-doors ; the  more  valid  gossipers  loitering, 
as  usual,  under  the  portico  of  the  Hotel  Paradis. 
Jet  and  Cora  Conyngham,  alone,  pace  up  and  down 


204  JET:  HER  FACS  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


the  upper  terrace  of  the  garden,  the  palm-shaded 
terrace,  where  Jet  watched  the  ixora  during  its 
one  short  night  of  fragrant  perfection,  and  mar- 
veled whether  her  own  happiness  were  destined  to 
be  as  transitory,  as  frail ! 

Every  joy  we  possess  is  insecure.  I have 
been  reading  that  observation  in  books  and  hear- 
ing it  in  sermons  all  my  life.  It  never  had  much 
meaning  for  me  till  to-day.  Insecure  ! Why,  I 
dare  say  there  have  been  thousands,  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  women,  as  happy,  once,  as  I was  last 
night,  whose  hearts  have  broken  in  the  end.  Cora,” 
after  a pause,  if  anything  so  ridiculously  unlikely 
were  to  happen  as  Adolphus  marrying  any  one 
but  you,  what  should  you  do  ? ” 

Cora  has  to  stop  in  her  walk  and  meditate.  At 
last,  drawing  a wild  check  on  her  imagination,  I 
— I do  not  suppose  I should  like  it,  just  at  first. 
Jet,”  she  answers,  with  an  air  of  conviction. 

‘^Like  it  ! Well,  no,  I never  imagined  that 
you  would.  What  should  you  Jo,  eventually? 
Would  you  be  able  to  live  life  out,  do  you  think, 
or  would  it  kill  you  ? ” 

“It  would  not  kill  me,  I am  sure.” 

“ And  you  would  grow  to  be  cheerful  again  ? 
In  time,  perhaps,  marry  some  one  else,  yourself  ? ” 
“ Most  likely.  If  Adolphus  had  another  wife, 
I certainly  could  not  marry  him.” 

“ I wish  I were  you,  little  Cora  ! I wish  I had 
your  temperament.  For  me,”  says  Jet,  her  voice 


NOVEMBER  VIOLETS. 


205 


sinking,  everything  must  be  in  extremes — violent 
happiness,  or  pain  too  keen  to  be  endured.  To-day, 
even,  with  no  better  excuse  for  my  folly  than  that 
Laurence,  through  some  accident,  has  not  come 
near  us,  I have  suffered — horribly.” 

And,  in  truth,  the  girl’s  cheeks  are  wan  ; lines 
that  her  nineteen  years  do  not  warrant  seem,  in 
the  last  twenty-four  hours,  to  have  become  graven 
round  her  mouth. 

Laurence  Biron  is  a vast  deal  too  much  under 
a certain  bad  influence.  Jet.  I felt  it  the  first  mo- 
ment I saw  him -with  miladi’s  lap-dog  in  his  arms. 
If  I were  you,  I should  make  him  break  off  that 
little  friendship  of  his  without  delay.  Just  see 
how  ‘ his  reverence  and  miladi,’  how  we  all,  are 
talked  about  in  this  hotel ! Why,  Lady  Austen’s 
maid  told  Porter,  and  Porter  told  me — ” 

Something  that  you  are  dying  to  repeat  in 
your  turn.  Relieve  your  mind,  child,”  says  Jet, 
with  forced  coolness.  “ Lighten  your  conscience 
by  repeating  the  last  servant s’-hall  news,  and  I 
will  listen — patiently,  if  I can.” 

^‘Well,  Jet,  in  the  first  place,  ever  since  you 
and  papa  arrived  in  Esterel,  it  appears — prepare 
for  something  desperately  unflattering — that  you 
have  been  mistaken  for  me.” 

Cora  ! ” 

Of  course,  taken  by  itself,  this  matters  noth- 
ing : still,  it  is  as  well,  perhaps,  that  you  should 
know  of  it.  ‘ Miss  Conyngham,  the  heiress.’  That 


206  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


is  the  title  the  English  people  in  Esterel  have 
given  you.” 

“Brevet  rank  for  once  in  my  life,”  cries  Jet, 
but  with  a quivering  lip.  Some  unacknowledged 
presage  of  evil,  some  dread,  as  yet  foundationless, 
is  gaining  mastery  in  her  brain.  Her  look  is  rest- 
less ; her  color  goes  from  white  to  red  with  sus- 
picious quickness. 

“ And  Lady  Austen  was  under  the  same  im- 
pression as  the  rest,  until  Major  Brett  undeceived 
her.” 

“ That  terrible  Major  Brett ! If  I were  super- 
stitious, I should  believe  him  to  be  my  evil  genius, 
my  grave-goose,  as  we  used  to  say  when  we  were 
children.  The  very  sight  of  the  amethyst  brooch, 
the  wig,  the  teeth,  makes  me  shudder.” 

“ And  yet.  Major  Brett  may  have  been  a truer 
friend  than  you  think.” 

“ Cora,  these  oracular  utterances  are  too  much 
for  human  nerves.  Tell  me  the  worst  secrets  of 
Porter’s  prison-house,  and  let  us  have  done  with 
it.” 

“ The  worst  secrets  are — about  Mark.  The  poor 
fellow  visited  his  mother,  for  the  first  time,  this 
morning,  and  there  was  a frightfully  violent  ex- 
planation between  them  all — Lady  Austen,  Mark, 
and  Mr.  Biron.” 

“An  explanation  that  can  in  no  possible  way 
concern  us,”  says  Jet,  a little  coldly.  “There  is 
nothing  new  in  Mark  and  Laurence  disliking  each 


NOVEMBER  VIOLETS. 


207 


other — some  groundless  jealousy,  no  doubt,  stand- 
ing over  from  Mark’s  schoolboy-days.  Laurence, 
I am  certain,  has  been  generously  doing  his  best 
to  bring  the  mother  and  son  together,  and — ” 

“And  has  succeeded  in  setting  them  wider 
apart  than  ever,”  interrupts  Cora,  with  meaning. 
“Mark  returned  by  the  mid-day  train  to  Paris. 
Miladi,  within  half  an  hour  of  his  departure,  sent 
out  invitations  to  all  Esterel  for  her  tertulia,  then 
spent  the  afternoon  alone,  with  Mr.  Laurence  Bi- 
ron,  in  her  own  apartments.” 

Whiter  and  whiter  grows  Jet’s  face;  more  and 
more  have  youth  and  brightness  died  from  it. 

“ It  is  an  intimacy  that  I do  not  like — how  can 
I like  it  ? ” says  the  poor  child,  very  low.  “ But 
I believe,  utterly,  in  Laurence  Biron’s  good  faith. 
It  would  take  a great  deal  more  than  appearances, 
a great  deal  more  than  idle  gossip,  to  shake  me  in 
my  belief.  As  to  Lady  Austen’s  quarrel  with 
Mark,  it  may  have  been  about  family  matters — 
money — a hundred  things  of  which  we  are  igno- 
rant— ” 

“ And  if  I know  more  than  I have  told  you,” 
says  Cora,  taking  her  sister’s  cold  hand,  and  hold- 
ing it  wistfully  between  her  own — “if  I know 
that  your  name — ” 

“We  have  no  right  to  know  anything  what- 
ever,” interrupts  Jet,  with  determination.  “I 
have  a good,  strong  pair  of  shoulders,  and  must 
bear  whatever  burden  falls  on  me.  No  need  to 


208  her  face  OR  I|ER  FORTUNE? 

go  out  and  meet  ill-fortune  on  its  road.  Half- 
past four  already  ! ” Just  at  this  moment  the  old 
church-clock  of  Esterel  strikes  the  hour.  I must 
gather  ^ome  violets  for  Laurence’s  button-hole — 
yes,  Cora,  though  I should  have  to  give  them  to 
him  under  Lady  Austen’s  very  eyes.  Did  you  ever 
see  such  November  violets?”  she  adds,  hiding  her 
•face  from  Cora’s  scrutiny,  as  she  bends,  under 
shadow  of  the  palms.  Talk  of  sweetness — why, 
they  are  sweeter  than  all  the  wild-flowers  of  all 
the  Devonshire  Aprils  put  together.” 


CHAPTER  XXL 

THE  LAST  FIVE  MINUTES. 

Jet  keeps  up  her  spirits  bravely  ; half  an  hour 
later,  she  enters  Lady  Austen’s  salon  with  a step 
as  firm,  with  head  as  well  erect,  as  her  wont.  Only 
Cora,  and  perhaps  one  other  observer,  can  detect 
that  the  bloom  on  her  cheek  is  feverish,  that  her 
eyes  are  over-lustrous.  Miladi,  who  comes  for- 
ward, with  exaggerated  cordiality,  to  receive  the 
sisters,  is  lavish  of  pretty  speeches. 

Quite  a pleasure  to  have  my  little  assemblage 
ornamented  with  so  much  beauty.  I did  my  best 
to  make  my  son,  Mark,  prolong  his  stay  in  Esterel, 
especially  when  I heard  he  was  a friend  of  Miss 
Jet  Conyngham’s,  but  all  in  vain.  Perhaps  he 


THE  LAST  FIVE  MINUTES. 


209 


showed  discretion,  acted  wisely  for  his  own  peace 
of  mind.,  in  cutting  his  visit  short.  What  do 
you  say,  young  ladies?  Now,  I hope  you  will 
find  yourselves  among  friends.  Miss  Wylie,  Ma- 
jor Brett,”  indicating  her  visitors  '>vith  succes- 
sive waves  of  her  hand.  I always  say  that 
at  my  little  receptions,  my  tertulias,  as  I call 
them,  introductions  are  needless.  All  present 
are  friends  of  mine,  and  friends,  I hope,  of  each 
other.” 

Miladi  is  gorgeous,  I had  almost  written  Sa- 
tanic, in  a robe  of  black  and  flame-colored  satin 
— a Parisian  confection,  no  doubtj  of  the  high- 
est price  and  novelty,  but  grotesquely  unsuited 
to  the  woman  and  the  occasion.  All  the  flower- 
shops  of  Esterel  have  been  ransacked  to  furnish 
forth  adornment  for  her  salo7i ; not  tea  only,  but 
wine,  ices,  fruits,  are  being  handed  round  by  white- 
gloved  waiters  to  the  assembled  guests.  The  gas 
is  lighted  ; brackets  and  tables  are  weighed  down 
by  the  bigotry  and  virtue,”  the  gilt  bottles,  ivory 
carvings,  photograph-stands,  without  which  miladi 
never  travels.  Everything  is  overdone  ; every- 
thing is  in  false  taste.  Quiet,  soft  light,  friendly 
talk — all  the  essential  requisites  for  afternoon  tea, 
as  a hostess  of  cultivation  understands  the  term 
— are  wanting. 

And  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron  ? 

Jet’s  eyes,  in  one  quick  glance,  take  in  each 
occupant  of  the  room,  and  for  an  instant — shall  I 
14 


2]  ) JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


S3  f of  fear  or  of  hope  ? — she  believes  him  to  be 
absent ! Then,  in  a farther  corner,  speaking  to 
no  one,  a newspaper  in  his  hand,  she  descries  him, 
dressed,  as  she  has  never  seen  him,  in  a suit  of 
ultra-clericals — a coat,  of  cut  ritualistic,  reaching 
to  his  heels,  a turned-down  lawn  collar,  a pair  of 
lavender,  black-stitched  gloves. 

This  is  his  livery,  put  on  by  Lady  Austen’s 
command — livery  that  he  wears  only  when  her 
influence  is  in  the  ascendant. 

Laurence  Biron,  to  say  the  worst  of  him,  be-, 
longs  not  to  the  class  of  amateur  or  unpaid  impos- 
tors. Give  Biron  five  hundred  pounds  a year,  and 
see  if  he  would  seek  to  hide  his  spiritual  deficien- 
cies under  a long-skirted  coat  or  down-turned  shirt- 
collar  more  ! Wherever  his  eclecticism  may  have 
landed  him,  it  is  a long  way  beyond  the  point  at 
which  we  voluntarily  assume  faith,  or  symbols  of 
faith,  that  we  have  not.  He  knows  that  he  be- 
lieves nothing,  venerates  nothing,  hopes  nothing  ; 
no,  not  even  the  final  triumph  of  good  in  human 
hearts. 

For  what,  save  the  solid  inducement  of  pounds, 
shillings,  and  pence,  should  such  a man  play  the 
hypocrite  ? 

Life  is  a burlesque.  This,  if  circumstances  al- 
lowed him  to  speak  frankly,  would  pretty  fairly 
summarize  Mr.  Biron’s  creed.  We  are  ignorant 
whence  we  come,  or  whither  we  go,  or  what  is  the 
object  of  our  existence.  Such  being  our  condi- 


THE  LAST  FIVE  MINUTES. 


311 


tion,  enthusiasm  on  any  subject,  or  of  any  kind  or 
degree,  can  only  be  regarded  as  the  outcome  of  a 
diseased  brain.  Wisdom  consists  in  accepting 
whatever  material  good  lies  to  our  hand — art,  lit- 
erature, the  love  of  woman,  the  beauty  of  Nature, 
the  excitement  of  baccarat — in  putting  aside  every 
question  that  does  not  admit  of  definite  answer,  in 
taking  care  of  the  digestion,  and,  finally,  if  life 
should  become  a burden  intolerable  to  bear,  in 
getting  rid  of  it. 

Yes,  give  Laurence  Biron  five  hundred  pounds 
a year,  make  him  easy  as  to  his  breakfast,  his  din- 
ner, and  his  tailor’s  bills,  and  he  would,  in  words, 
confess  his  creed  of  base  prudence,  cynical  world- 
liness, and  low  content,  as  plainly  as  he  confesses 
it  now  in  actions. 

Alas ! that  five  hundred  pounds  a year  is  hy- 
pothetical ! His  hopes  of  possessing  fortune  and 
(small  item)  Jet’s  heart  are  in  the  dust.  A mar- 
riage with  Lady  Austen  is  once  more  the  open 
door  between  himself  and  starvation— the  neces- 
sity of  wearing  his  livery  more  stringent  than 
ever. 

Miladi,  good  creature,  is  not  particularly  well 
versed  in  the  finer  subtilties  of  unbelief  ; troubles 
not  her  head  as  to  whether  the  Reverend  Lau- 
rence Biron  be  positivist,  agnostic,  eclectic.  It  is 
her  will  that  he  shall  wear  the  garb  clerical,  just 
as  in  former  days  it  was  her  will  that  Sir  George 
Austen,  on  all  possible  or  impossible  occasions, 


212  JET:  HM  FACE  OH  HER  FOrTHNE  f 


should  wear  his  general’s  uniform.  It  makes  him 
somebody. 

To  belong  to  the  army  or  church  is  of  itself  a 
passport,  miladi  will  say.  ^nto  what  society  can 
an  officer  or  a clergyman  not  gain  admission  ? A 
scarlet  coat,  a white  tie,  are  letters  of  credit.  As 
well  drop  the  prefix — how  gladly  would  Biron, 
long  ere  this,  have  dropped  his  ! — ^that  attaches  a 
certain  social  standing  to  your  name. 

Accordingly,  on  this  day  from  which  his  new, 
rehabilitated  life  is  definitely  to  commence — this 
day  on  which,  as  regards  freedom,  Mr.  Biron’s  last 
dying  speech  and  confession  have  been  made — it 
is  her  pleasure  that  he  should,  in  all  literalness,  be 
reverend  ” down  to  the  ground.  A curious  set- 
off or  relief,  had  miladi  the  sense  of  humor  to  per- 
ceive it,  to  the  Cimmerian  flame-color  of  her  own 
costume. 

‘^Really,  the  most  ludicrously  ill-assorted  cou- 
ple,” remarks  Miss  Wylie,  behind  shelter  of  her 
fan,  to  Major  Brett.  Miladi  must  have  gone  in 
that  dress  to  a masked  ball  as  the  Inquisition.” 

“ With  Biron  as  high-priest.  Ah  ! young  la- 
dy, let  those  laugh  who  win  ! Miladi  is  a deuced 
fine  woman  still,  and  has  secured  a deuced  hand- 
some fellow  for  her  husband.” 

I suppose  it  all  settled,  in  good  earnest,” 
Miss  Wylie  hazards,  ingenuously.  “It  would  be 
a relief  to  one’s  conscience  to  know  things  stood 
on  a correct  footing  at  last,” 


THE  LAST  FIVE  MINUTES. 


213 


Correct,  and  more  than  correct,”  says  the  old 
major,  rubbing  his  hands.  The  marriage  of  his 
reverence  and  miladi  is  to  take  place  at  Florence 
before  Christmas.  I have  it  from  the  highest 
source — from  Lady  Austen’s  own  lips.” 

And  Miss  Jet  Conyngham  ? ” 

Ah,  a trifling  misconception  as  to  the  ways 
and  means — the  forty  thousand  charms  of  her  sis- 
ter assigned,  by  the  lying  jade.  Rumor,  to  Miss 
Jet  herself.  From  the  first,  if  you  recollect,  I had 
my  fears  that  some  mistake  of  the  kind  was  likely 
to  occur.” 

Poor  thing,  poor  thing  ! With  all  her  faults, 
one  cannot  refrain  from  feeling  a certain — ” 

Spare  yourself  the  trouble  of  commiseration, 
my  dear  madam ; it  is  unneeded.  Handsome 
girls  may  die,  and  worms  may  eat  them,  but  not 
of  love — not,  at  all  events,”  adds  the  old  major, 
cynically,  in  the  present  age  of  the  world.  A 
good-looking  face,  more  or  less,  in  Araminta’s 
photograph  - album  — an  experience  practically 
made  use  of  to  give  pathos  to  the  ^ little  new  song 
that  she  sings’ — and  then— consolation  in  the 
shape  of  some  gentleman  bound  up  with  the  great 
eating  interest  out  of  the  city.  That  is  how  young 
ladies  of  the  nineteenth  century  get  over  their  love- 
sorrows.” 

Thus  Major  Brett  and  Miss  Wylie. 

Upon  the  other  side  of  the  room,  the  Marie 
Stuart  widow  murmurs  her  little  plausible  confi- 
dences into  the  ear  of  Mr.  Conyngham* 


214  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

“ It  is  bat  hearsay,  I am  told,  at  present,  and 
indeed  one  should  not  waste  one’s  sympathies  on 
mere  temporal  things  ; still,  it  is  a matter  of  re- 
lief to  think  that  this  Lady  Austen  ” (this  Lady 
Austen,  whose  hospitality  we  are  enjoying)  ^4s 
likely  to  marry  the  Reverend  Laurence  Biron.” 

Lady  Austen — marry  the  Reverend  Laurence 
Biron  ? ” repeats  Mr.  Conyngham,  with  his  usual 
blank  want  of  interest  in  any  affairs  save  his  own. 

I had  supposed  them  to  be  married,  or  engaged 
— it  comes  to  the  same — for  years  past.  ‘ Lady 
Austen — Mr.  Biron’ — it  seems  to  me  the  two 
names  have  invariably  been  entered  together  in 
my  note-book.” 

Y — es.  That  is  the  very  sad  part  of  the  his- 
tory. Ah,  my  dear  friend,  what  a pang  it  costs 
one  to  reflect  that  a person  like  Mr.  Laurence  Bb 
ron  should  be  a lawful  minister  of  the  Truth  ! ” 

Biron  is  a most  desirable  traveling-compan- 
ion,” says  Mr.  Conyngham,  almost  with  warmth. 
“We  came  down  with  him  from  Avignon,  and  his 
attentions  were  of  real  service  to  me.  You  see,  I 
had  taken  a slight  cold  at  Lyons — ” 

“Ah,  those  slight  colds  ! ” ejaculates  the  wid- 
ow, piously  sympathetic. 

“ Perugino  had  not,  at  that  time,  learned  his 
duties,  and  Jet,  poor  child,  is  scarcely  to  be  trust- 
ed in  the  matter  of  packing.” 

“Jet  is  thoughtless- — Jet  has  been  deprived, 
^las ! too  early  of  maternal  care.”  The  widow 


THE  LAST  FIVE  MINUTES. 


215 


glances  with  meaning  at  the  window  beside  which 
the  girl  stands,  flushed  and  smiling — Laurence 
Biron  in  the  act  of  crossing  the  room  toward  her. 

W e must  hope  that  with  time  and  training  her 
levity  will  tone  down.” 

And,  but  for  Mr.  Biron,  I should  infallibly 
have  got  my  feet  damp  at  Marseilles.  There  is  an 
uncovered  platform,  if  you  recollect,  that  one  must 
traverse  in  changing  carriages.  We  had  had  a 
slight  shower  of  rain  in  the  course  of  the  forenoon, 
and  my  galoshes  were  packed  away.  It  was  a mo- 
ment of  great  distress  for  us  all.  Happily,  Biron 
had  the  presence  of  mind  to  think  of  a chaise  d 
porteurs^  and  procured  one  for  me.  That  laid  the 
foundation  of  my  good  opinion  of  him.” 

Indeed  ! I consider  the  Reverend  Laurence 
Biron  a very  dangerously  fascinating  person,  Mr. 
Conyngham.” 

If  the  feet  become  damp  during  exercise,  the 
chances  of  taking  or  escaping  cold  may  be  even. 
Sitting  still  in  a railway-carriage,  I should  have 
been  simply  sure  of  inflammation.  As  it  is,  with 
every  care  and,  up  to  the  present  time,  favorable 
weather,  I am  not  progressing.  Since  I left  Eng- 
land, last  October,  I have  lost  exactly  seven  ounces 
and  a fraction.” 

The  widov/  abandons  the  subject  of  Jet’s  levity 
in  despair. 

Levity  ! If  human  creatures,  the  self -elected 
salt  of  the  earth  more  especially,  could  look  into 


218  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 

the  hearts  of  others  now  and  then,  would  it  turn 
them  into  Christians,  I wonder? 

Jet  Conyngham’s  heart  is  frozen.  With  no  tan- 
gible confirmation,  she  feels  that  her  worst  fears 
are  becoming  realized  : that  Biron’s  love — that  Bi- 
ron  himself — is  gone  from  her  ! She  reads  the  sin- 
ister truth  in  every  loud  laugh  of  Lady  Austen’s, 
— in  every  whisper  exchanged  around  the  room  ; 
reads  it  on  Laurence  Biron’s  changed  and  haggard 
face. 

He  approaches — what  choice  has  he  but  to  ap- 
proach her  ? They  shake  hands.  Cora,  invaluable 
always  at  commonplace,  makes  some  observation 
about  the  weather. 

Yes,”  remarks  Jet,  in  a forced  kind  of  voice, 
but  calmly  enough  ; it  would  have  been  a fine 
day  for  exploring  the  forest — if  we  had  had  an 
escort.  Protected  or  unprotected,  I shall  certain- 
ly take  Cora  over  to  Tamaris  to-morrow.” 

^^If  you  knew  how  my  day  has  been  spent, 
you  would  forgive  me,”  says  Biron,  bending  over 
her  ; then  he  adds,  in  a lower  key,  Forgive — - 
and  pity  me.” 

‘‘  Have  I anything  real  to  forgive  ? ” Jet  whis- 
pers, looking  up  at  him  with  eager  beseeching, 
with  a lifetime’s  condensed  pain  in  her  deep  eyes. 

Anything  real  ? O my  poor  little  love  ! 
You  have  to  forgive  me  everything.  Jet — forgive 
and,  if  you  are  wise,  forget  me.” 

Cora  by  now  has  moved  aside.  The  lovers  for 


THE  LAST  FIVE  MINUTES. 


217 


five  minutes’  space — with  a room  full  of  people, 
witu  Lady  Austen  herself,  looking  on — are  alone. 

‘‘I  felt,  throughout  the  whole  of  yesterday, 
that  a storm  was  gathering  round  our  happiness. 
The  storm  has  burst,  J et,  and  I am  shipwrecked.” 

Biron’s  face  is  white  with  genuine  passion  ; 
the  muscles  round  his  mouth  quiver  convulsively. 

From  the  first  day  I saw  you,”  he  goes  on, 
in  a broken  whisper,  I have  been  led  away  from 
— from  my  allegiance.  I had  a hope — in  the  gen- 
erosity of  others,  in  the  possibility  of  my  regain- 
ing freedom — and  the  hope  has  proved  a false 
one.  I— I—” 

Have  ceased  to  care  for  me,”  she  utters,  un- 
falteringly, with  rigid  lips.  “I  understand  now 
what  you  told  me  that  evening  on  the  terrace. 
The  ixora  was  your  favorite  flower,  you  said,  be- 
cause of  its  short  life — there  was  no  time  to  grow 
tired  of  it ! Yes  ; I understand  now.” 

Her  voice,  her  quiet  words,  cut  Laurence  Bi- 
I’on  to  the  quick. 

Much  experience  has  rendered  him  proof 
against  scenes,  reproaches,  tears,  hysterical  dem- 
onstration, of  all  kinds.  Jet  Conyngham’s  cold 
despair,  the  promise  of  future  anguish  on  her 
young  face,  touch  every  lingering  fibre  of  man- 
hood that  exists  in  him. 

Ceased  to  care  for  you  ! I shall  love  you 
till  the  last  hour  I draw  breath,”  he  whispers, 
hoarsely.  ‘‘  There  will  be  my  punishment.  Do 


318  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


you  think  a wretch  expiating  his  sins  in  hell  could 
forget  that  he  had  once  seen  heaven’s  gates  ajar‘> 
Do  you  think  I shall  not  look  back,  out  of  my  in- 
fernal life,  to  your  sweet  face,  feel  your  poor  little 
hand,  touch  your  lips,  in  dreams  ? ” 

I think,”  she  answers,  still  with  perfect  self- 
command,  ^Hhat  I would  far  rather  not  hear  you 
talk  like  this.  Our  whole  acquaintance  has  been 
a mistake.  I have  never  rightly  known  you — nor 
you  me,  sir,  for  the  matter  of  that  ! But  noth- 
ing that  is  done  can  be  undone.  Spoiled,  or  not 
spoiled,  we  must  just  live  our  lives  out  to  the  end. 
Do  you  know,  I have  brought  you  some  violets  ? ” 
she  goes  on,  quickly.  came  here,  remember, 
thinking  that  we  were  friends  still — Well,  and 
I mean  to  give  them  to  you.  Surely,  as  a last 
gift,  you  are  not  afraid  to  accept  them  ? ” 

She  loosens  the  violets  from  her  dress,  and 
gives  them  to  him. 

Laurence  Biron  lifts  them,  with  a gesture  un- 
seen by  all  save  Jet,  to  his  lips. 

They  are  warm  from  her  touch — pure,  fra- 
grant, as  the  girlish  love  that  she  has  lavished  on 
him. 

‘‘Afraid!  You  have  aright  to  talk  of  fear. 
You  do  well  to  remind  me  that  I am  the  most 
abject  coward  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  But  I 
shall  have  my  punishment — no  room  for  doubt 
on  that  head — I shall  have  my  punishment ! ” 

“I  hope  you  will  have  happiness,”  says  Jet, 


THE  LAST  FIVE  MINUTES. 


219 


softly,  solemnly.  If  others  ” — she  cannot  bring 
herself  to  speak  Lady  Austen’s  name — ‘‘have  a 
claim  on  you  stronger  than  mine,  it  is  right,  it  is 
to  your  honor,  to  give  me  up.  You  deserve  no 
punishment.” 

Right  — honor!  As  Jet  pronounces  those 
words,  her  face  like  death,  a piteous  light  shining 
in  her  eyes,  Mr.  Biron  gains  practical  knowledge 
as  to  whether  conscience — the  deposit  left  in  the 
crucible  of  experiment — be  a myth  or  a reality. 

When  the  last  of  the  guests  has  departed. 
Lady  Austen  crosses  Ihe  room  to  her  lover’s  side. 

He  has  opened  one  of  the  windows,  and  stands 
there  with  face  out-bent  to  the  chill  evening  wind. 

“Just  the  way  to  catch  a violent  cold,”  re- 
marks miladi,  affectionately.  “ Really,  Laurence, 
I must  make  you  take  better  care  of  yourself.” 

“ The  room  wants  air,”  he  answers,  shortly ; 
“ impossible  to  breathe  in  such  a stifling  atmos- 
phere.” 

She  pauses  for  a moment  or  two,  watching  his 
expression  narrowly. 

“ I have  misgivings  as  to  the  climate  of  Esterel 
agreeing  with  you,  mon  ami.  You  are  positively 
saffron-colored  to-day  ; don’t  you  think  it  would 
be  well,  for  your  healths  saJcCy  to  go  on  to  Flor- 
ence, at  once  ? ” 

“As  you  choose,”  he  answers,  without  looking 
at  her,  without  stirring  from  his  position. 


220  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


^^You  see,  there  is  the  villa  to  arrange  about. 
If  we  decide  on  spending  the  winter  at  Florence, 
we  cannot  do  better  than  secure  the  Villa  Corona. 
And  there  are  your  money-matters  at  Nice.  I do 
not  choose  that  you  should  leave  your  debts  of 
honor  unpaid.” 

Honor  ! He  seems  fated  to  hear  the  word  to- 
night— spoken  by  what  different  lips,  with  what 
different  signification  ! 

Decide  everything  as  you  like,  Helena.  All 
places  are  the  same  to  me.” 

He  turns,  now,  and  she  can  see  the  horrible 
weariness  of  his  face  ; can  see,  too,  the  bunch  of 
November  violets.  Jet’s  gift,  in  his  button-hole. 

In  a second,  ere  he  can  divine  or  frustrate  her  in- 
tentions, the  violets  are  in  Lady  Austen’s  hands,  are 
shred  to  fragments,  flung  forth  into  the  darkness. 

‘‘So  much  for  Miss  Jet  Conyngham’s  love-to- 
ken ! ” she  exclaims.  “ Do  you  think  I have  no 
eyes,  mon  cher  ? Do  you  think  all  the  touching 
little  farewell  scene  was  lost  upon  me  ? ” 

“ I think,’^  says  Biron,  moving  away  from  her 
with  cold  disgust,  “that  there  is  one  subject  it 
would  be  wise  for  you  not  to  broach,  one  name 
that  had  best  never  be  mentioned  between  us.” 

“ And  I,”  says  miladi,  harshly,  “ see  no  reason 
whatever  for  such  delicate  reticence.  In  every 
game,  one  must  win,  one  lose.  Miss  Jet  Conyng- 
ham  has  chosen  to  dream  a dream.  She  must  bear 
the  awakening  from  it  as  best  she  can.” 


JET  IS  SILENT.  22l 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

JET  IS  SILEOT, 

Readee,  the  story  I have  told  is  a thing  of  the 
past.  Five  years  have  fled  since  Jet  Conyngham 
watched  the  sunset  among  the  forests  at  Laurence 
Biron’s  side.  The  girl,  keenly  expectant  of  life’s 
drama,  and  of  the  part  that  she  should  play  there- 
in, is  now  a woman  ; beautiful — though  not  with 
the  brilliant  coloring,  the  vivid  expression,  of  her 
first  youth — quiet,  self-contained. 

^‘The  cold  Miss  Conyngham.”  Such  is  the 
epithet  that  the  world,  indiscriminative  between 
coldness  and  reserve,  has  found  for  her.  Ole 
Aunt  Det.”  That  is  the  name  by  which  she  best 
likes  to  hear  herself  called  ; the  name  that  she 
has,  already,  taught  Cora’s  baby-children  to  lisp. 

....  Spoiled,  or  not  spoiled,  we  must  just 
live  our  lives  out  to  the  end.  . . . 

Crucial  has  been  the  test  put  to  Jet’s  philoso- 
phy ; doubtful,  at  times,  the  final  issue  of  the 
struggle. 

At  first,  the  people  nearest  to  the  girl  judged 
it  wise,  after  the  manner  of  friends,  to  put  her 
through  a course  of  tonic  or  heroic  treatment. 
She  had  squandered  her  love — rather,  say,  ^her 
childish  fancy — upon  an  unprincipled  fortune- 
hunter,  a disgrace  to  his  cloth,  a man  whose  heart- 


222  JET:  HER  FACE  OR  HER  FORTUNE? 


less  selfishness  was  unredeemed  by  one  solitary 
virtue.  Look  to  what  Mr.  Biron  had  sunk  as 
Lady  Austen’s  husband.  (And,  indeed,  the  mar- 
ried life  of  his  reverence  and  miladi  might  furnish 
an  adequate  text  to  many  a sermon  !)  Was  it 
worthy  of  her  to  mourn,  lastingly,  for  object  so 
worthless  ? Time,  that  in  the  highest  natures  has 
been  known  to  heal  nobly-gotten  wounds — was 
time  never  to  skin  over  the  scratch  that,  during  a 
fortnight’s  madness,  had  befallen  her?  And  Jet, 
though  the  reasoning  was  unimpeachable,  remained 
uncured.  At  the  end  of  months,  at  the  end  of 
years,  her  love  and  her  regret  were  pretty  much 
the  same  as  they  had  been  at  first ; crushed  down 
out  of  sight,  of  course — can  men  and  women  walk 
about  the  world’s  highway  with  shrieks  and  tears  ? 
— but  ready  to  start,  at  any  chance  reminder,  a 
flower,  a song,  the  smell  of  fir-woods  in  autumn, 
to  the  surface. 

Five  years.  Jet  Conyngham  is  now  four-and- 
twenty  ; a confirmed  old  maid,  she  says,  herself, 
in  all  sincerity.  Her  summers  she  spends  at  Dul- 
ford  Rectory  ; her  winters,  abroad,  with  her  fa- 
tner.  For  Mr.  Conyngham  is  as  great  a valetudi- 
narian, though  as  little  likely  to  die,  as  on  the  day 
when  we  first  saw  him  at  Folkestone.  Since  that 
luckless  southern  November,  Jet  has  received 
more  admiration  than  falls  to  the  lot  of  ninety- 
nine  young  and  happy  girls  out  of  a hundred, 
has  read  much,  thought  much  ; seen  many  men, 


JET  IS  SILENT. 


223 


many  countries  ; talks  brilliantly ; is  a perfect- 
ly charming  companion  to  young  or  old.  And 
still — 

Still  the  world  calls  her  the  cold  Miss  Conyng- 
ham,”  and  before  you  have  been  in  her  society 
five  minutes  you  feel  the  appropriateness  of  the 
title. 

With  all  her  grace  of  language,  her  knowledge 
of  life,  her  ready  sympathy  in  the  concerns  of  oth- 
ers, Jet’s  brightness  strikes  you  as  unreal.  The 
old  heart-whole  laugh,  the  dancing  step,  the  en- 
joyment that  once  lit  up  every  feature  of  her 
mobile  face,  are  gone  from  her  forever. 

‘^In  fact,  Mark,  I am  old — yes,  a great  deal 
older  than  papa  and  Aunt  Gwendoline.  They 
can  take  an  interest,  both  of  them,  in  things  that 
I have  outlived  a century  ago  ; and  as  to  you — you 
remember  Edgar  Poe’s  description  of  the  youth 
who  insisted  upon  being  in  love  with  his  great- 
grandmother ? The  situation  is  ridiculous  enough 
in  a story-book.  Think  what  it  would  be  trans- 
ferred to  real  life.” 

It  is  a fair  August  afternoon,  and  Jet  Conyng- 
ham  is  walking  in  the  woods  that  lie  around  Dul- 
ford  Rectory,  Mark  Austen  at  her  side  ; Mark, 
home  on  a six  months’  leave  from  India,  bronzed, 
bearded,  out  of  all  knowledge,  but  with  his  heart 
in  the  same  hopeless  place  as  ever,  and  rather 
more  incapable  than  he  was,  five  years  ago,  of  re- 
ceiving Jet’s  “ISTo”  as  final. 


224  JET:  face  OR  HER  FORTUNE^ 


All  the  world  of  woodland  creatures  round 
them  is  wrapped  in  peaceful  happiness.  Legions 
of  rooks  are  talking  to  each  other  in  the  elms  ; 
the  squirrels  are  darting  to  and  fro  among  the 
branches  ; the  bees  hum  in  the  tall  foxgloves.  In 
the  middle-distance  lies  the  placid  picture  of  Dul- 
ford  Rectory.  A stationary  white  spot  on  the 
lawn  represents  the  rector’s  wife  ; three  smaller 
white  spots,  in  perpetual  motion,  represent  the 
rector’s  children.  At  an  open  library-window  may 
be  seen  a slight  black  figure  and  a writing-table  ; 
Adolphus,  no  doubt,  busied  over  the  sermon  which, 
next  Sunday,  shall  furnish  forth  the  accustomed 
eight  days’  nourishment  to  the  intelligence  of  Dul- 
ford  parish. 

The  worst  of  it  is,  I do  not  care,  one  bit, 
about  being  ridiculous,”  says  Mark  ; deep,  reso- 
lute has  grown  his  voice  since  last  we  heard  its 
tones.  The  sense  of  humor  must  be  wanting  in 
niy  character,  at  all  events,  as  regards  myself. 
How  many  years,  I wonder,  have  you  been  laugh- 
ing at  me,  Jet  ? ” 

Jet  ! They  have  at  least  progressed  to  the 
use  of  Christian  names  ! 

^^Six — seven?  Yes,  you  have  been  laughing 
at  me  exactly  seven  years,  and  I — mind  it  rather 
less  than  I did  at  the  first  Dulford  tea-party  when 
I ever  met  you.  Do  you  remember  the  archery- 
ball,  talking  of  festivities  ? — the  ball  at  which  you 
not  only  gave  my  cotillon  to  the  colonel  of  the 


225 


JET  IS  SILENT. 

regiment,  but  defended  your  conduct  afterward 
as  based  on  principle  ? You  wore  a blue-muslin 
gown,  Miss  Conyngham.  By  the  end  of  the  even- 
ing it  was  torn  to  shreds  by  the  spurs  of  your  suc- 
cessive partners,  and  I picked  up  a rejected  frag- 
ment— laugh  at  me  as  much  as  you  like — and  kept 
it.  That  morsel  of  blue  rag  has  been  to  India 
and  back  with  me.” 

But  Jet  is  not  laughing.  She  has  turned  her 
face  away,  sharply.  In  the  matter  of  hoarded 
relics  she  too  has  had  experience.  Is  there  not  a 
certain  packet  of  dried  ixora-petals,  the  touch,  the 
faint  cold  odor  of  which  are  more  than  she  can 
bear,  even  yet  ? 

‘‘You  are  a great  deal  too  honest,  too  true,” 
so,  after  a minute,  she  tells  him,  “ to  waste  your 
youth,  as  you  are  doing,  on  a dream.  To  all  in- 
tents and  purposes  I am  an  old  woman.  ‘ Ole 
Aunt  Det,’  Cora’s  little  daughters  call  me.  For 
yo^^,  the  best  part  of  existence  is  still  to  come.” 

“ The  best  part — if  you  choose  to  make  it  so  ! ” 

“Even  traveling,  the  one  thing  that  used  to 
rouse  me  out  of  myself,  is  growing  insipid.  I was 
telling  Cora,  this  morning,  that  I would  spend 
next  winter  with  them  here,  at  Dulford.  Peru- 
gino  suits  papa  to  perfection — I am  never,  really, 
wanted  on  the  journeys — and  hotels,  new  acquaint- 
ances, tables  (Vhote^  and  the  rest  of  it,  do  not 
amuse  me.  I must  look  out  for  a fresh  occupa- 
tion for  my  old  age — write  a novel,  perhaps — ” 

15 


226  her  face  or  HER  FORTUNE? 


‘‘A  novel  of  which  the  scene  shall  he  laid  in 
India,”  says  Mark,  promptly.  “ You  could  not  do 
better.” 

For  a few  seconds  Jet  pauses.  Then  she  rests 
her  hand  upon  his  arm — the  slender,  sunburned 
hand  whose  touch,  now,  as  in  the  olden  times,  can 
bring  Mark  Austen  so  near  heaven.  She  looks  up 
seriously,  candidly,  in  his  face. 

A day  or  two  ago,  dear  Mark,  you  asked  me 
a question,  and  I told  you  I must  have  time  before 
I could  give  you  a final  answer.  I have  taken 
time,  and — 

‘‘Your  answer,  whatever  it  is,  cannot  be  final,” 
he  interrupts.  “As  long  as  human  beings  draw 
breath  they  change.  The  word  ‘ final  ’ is  an  ab- 
surdity.” 

“ Well,  we  will  not  quarrel  about  that.  Mark, 
if  I cared  for  you  less,  I think,  perhaps,  my  an- 
swer might  be — yes.” 

A flush  of  quick  emotion  sweeps  over  Mark’s 
face. 

“ But,  as  it  is,  looking  upon  you,  liking  you,  as 
my  best  friend  on  earth,  I shrink  from  the  barest 
possibility  of  your  unhappiness.” 

“ Unhappiness — if  I possessed  you  ! ” 

“ Sometimes,  I confess,  it  seems  to  me  that  I 
have  got  strong  at  heart  again.  With  Cora  and 
the  children,  and  now,  since  you  have  been  here, 
there  come  such  good,  bright  days  that  I feel  like 
a girl  once  more.  And  then — then,  O Mark,  in  a 


JET  IS  SILENT.  22*? 

moment  the  old  anguish  rushes  back ! The  old 
anguish,  the  old  despair  of  life.”  Her  cheek  has 
grown  white  as  marble  while  she  speaks.  And 
I feel  that  it  will  be — ah  ! any  number  of  years, 
before  I am  cured,  really.” 

And  suppose  I am  willing  to  wait — any  num- 
ber of  years?”  persists  Mark  Austen. 

Jet  is  silent. 


THB  BN»« 


